“I am here, sir,” said the boy with a labored formality that spoke of much rehearsal, “to speak to you of Miss Desirée Shevlin. You are her guardian, I understand.”
Caleb’s glare of utter and displeased astonishment checked the speaker for the briefest instant. But, swallowing hurriedly, he continued his set speech:
“I have the honor—the undeserved honor, sir,—to request your leave to ask Miss Shevlin to be my wife.”
It was out! Hawarden relaxed the knuckle-whitening grip of his fists. His forehead grew moist. So did his palms. Nor did Caleb’s attitude lessen the awkwardness of the moment. With open mouth the Fighter sat staring at his guest. At last he found words—just a few of them.
“Well I’ll be damned!” he sputtered.
“It seems to me,” said Hawarden, taking new hold of his sliding courage. “It seems to me a more honorable thing to ask your consent,—as Miss Shevlin’s guardian—before daring to offer myself to her.”
“Son!” observed Caleb, profoundly, “If you had a little more sense you’d be half-witted!”
The boy got to his feet.
“It is your right, I suppose,” he answered stiffly, “to insult me. You are an older man than I, and I come to you as an applicant for—”
“You read all that in a book,” snorted Caleb. “Cut it out and get down to sense. No one’s insultin’ you and no one’s stompin’ on your buddin’ dignity. You can’t wonder I was took aback when you sprung that mine on me. I ain’t up in the by-laws an’ constitootion of p’lite s’ciety. If it’s the usual thing to come over with a line of talk like you just got out of your system—, why I’m sorry if I acted rough. There! Now, sit down and talk sense. So it’s the custom to ask a girl’s guardian before askin’ her? Nice, ree-fined idee. But I guess if ev’rybody did it there wouldn’t be a terrible lot of work for the marriage license clerks. An’—why, you’re just a kid!” he broke out. “What in blazes are you babblin’ about marryin’ for? Desirée’s—”