Mr. Marrapit cast upward his eyes. He groaned:
“Again I am misunderstood. All my life I have been misunderstood.” He became stern. “Ingrate! Is it not patent to you that my desire is not to stand in your way? You have earned manhood, freedom, a charter to wrest money from the world. I might stay you. I do not. I bid you Godspeed.”
George remembered his weighty purpose. Making for it, he became humble. “I am sorry,” he said. “I see what you mean. I appreciate your kindness. You ask what are my plans. I have come specially to lay them before you.”
Mr. Marrapit clutched the seat of his chair with the action of one waiting a dentist's torture. He had a premonition that support of some kind would be necessary. “Proceed,” he said.
George said: “My plans—” He swallowed. “My plans—” Again he swallowed. His plans were red-hot within him, but he sought despairingly for one that would not at the very outset turn Mr. Marrapit into screams. “My plans—” he stammered.
“My God!” Mr. Marrapit groaned. “My God! What is coming?”
George said on a rush: “These are my plans. I intend to marry—”
Mr. Marrapit gave a faint little bark.
“Then—then—” said George, floundering. “After that—then—I intend to marry—I—”
“Bigamy,” Mr. Marrapit murmured. “Bigamy.”