The lovers clung to each other like bats in a steeple.
“But we'll have to put toe-weights on pa, George; he'll step high and lively when he hears of this!”
The lovers were seated on the sofa, now; the prudent Imogene was taking a look ahead.
“Doesn't your father love me, pet?”
“I don't think he does,” replied the fair girl tenderly. “I begged him to ask you to dinner, once, George; that was on your last trip. He said he would sooner dine with a wet dog, George, and refused. From that I infer his opposition to our union.”
“We'll make a monkey of him yet!” and George D'Orsey hissed the words through his set teeth.
“And my brother?”
“As for him,” said George D'Orsey (and at this he began pacing the room like a lion), “as for your brother! If he so much as looks slant-eyed at our happiness, he goes into the soup! From your father I would bear much; but when the balance of the family gets in on the game, they will pay for their chips in advance.”
“Can we not leave them, George; leave them, and fly together?”
“Your father is rich, Imogene; that is a sufficient answer.” There was a touch of sternness in George D'Orsey's tones, and the subject of flying was dropped.