"No, oh no. I rather wanted to talk to you, you know—that is—ah—"
"Sit down, Whitby, and relieve your mind. Cigars on that table there, and some whiskey and fizz. Shall I ring for brandy?"
"Awfully good of you, really. No, I—I think I 'll go in as I am. The fact is I want Margaret—Miss McAllister—and I thought I 'd ask if you had any objections."
"Margaret has."
"Oh, I say!"
"Fact, she has. Might as well face the music, Whitby. The truth is just this: It's less than a week ago since Margaret was holding you up as a horrible example. Margaret comes from a line of hustlers; she has not had common sense and national pride bred out of her in a fashionable school; and she looks with extreme disfavor on an idler."
"But I say, Mr. McAllister, you don't think—"
"No, my boy, I don't think where Margaret is concerned—Margaret thinks. Don't misunderstand me. I like you, Whitby. Confidentially, I believe Margaret does, too. But I am quite sure she will never marry a man who does nothing and, as she expressed it herself, lives on an allowance from his father."
"Then I understand, sir, you have no objections?"
"None in the world—because I believe you will strike your gait before long and become something of a hustler yourself. But let me tell you, Margaret does n't deal in futures—I 'm used to it—but she insists on a fact, not a probability."