“Why don’t you get married?”
“That’s just it, pater––why don’t I?” replied the young man, blandly.
“Well, why don’t you, then?” stormed Joshua Barnes, banging his fist down upon the mahogany table. “It’s time you did.”
Another bang lifted the red-headed office boy in the next room clear out of Deep Blood Gulch just as Derringer Dick was rescuing the beautiful damsel from the Apaches. Even Miss Featherington dropped “The Mystery of the Purple Room” on the floor and made a wild onslaught on the keys of her typewriter.
Whitney Barnes smiled benevolently upon his parent and nonchalantly lighted a cigarette.
“As I’ve said before,” he parried easily between the puffing of smoke rings, “I haven’t found the girl.”
“Dod rot the girl,” started Joshua Barnes, then stopped.
“Now, you know, my dear father, that I couldn’t treat my wife like that. The trouble with you, pater, is that you reason from false premises.”
“Nothing of the sort,” choked out Barnes senior. “You know well enough what I mean, young man. You have any number of––of––well, eligible young ladies, to choose from. You go everywhere and meet everybody. And you spend my money like water.”