"That girl?…"
"Very likely, sir."
"You know her, Rangar. She worked under you. What sort of girl is she?… I mean would you consider it wise to approach her with a proposition—delicately put, of course—to—say—move to another city, or something of the sort?"
"My observation of her—while not close—(you understand I have little opportunity for close observations of unimportant subordinates)—was that it would be unwise and—er—futile. She seemed to have quite a will. Indeed, I may say she seemed stubborn … and no fool. If she's got a chance at Mr. Bonbright she wouldn't give it up for a few dollars. Not her, sir."
"I don't recall her especially. Small—was she not? Not the—ah—ripe—rounded type to attract a boy? Eh?"
"Curves and color don't always do it, Mr. Foote, I've observed. I've known scrawny ones, without a thing to stir up the imagination, that had ten boys running after them to one running after the kind they have pictures of on calendars…. I don't know if it's brains, or what, but they've got something that attracts."
"Hum!… Can't say I've had much experience. Probably you're right. Anyhow, we're faced by something definite in the way of a condition. … If the thing is merely a liaison—we can break it up, I imagine, without difficulty. If my son is so blind to right and wrong, and to his position, as to want to MARRY the girl, we'll have to resort promptly to effective measures."
"Promptly," said Rangar. "And quietly, Mr. Foote. If she got an idea there was trouble brewing, she might off with him and get married before we could wink."
"Heavens!… An anarchistic boarding-house girl for a daughter-in-law!
We'd be a proud family, Rangar."
"Yes, sir. I understand you leave it with me?"