“Come to think it over,” said George, “I shouldn’t be surprised if Sayler didn’t have a notion in the back of his head that if he got me married right I’d come round—fall into line and drop my principles.”
Clearwater nodded. “And no doubt you will. But I shall not permit my daughter to be used for any such purpose.” Very graciously, after the manner of the thoroughly virtuous, praising the feeble and halting efforts of a young fellow man essaying the lower reaches of the path of virtue: “I congratulate you on your honesty—on not trying the unprincipled game of hiding your principles. I admire an honest man. It must have cost you a struggle.”
“No,” said George, “I had nothing to lose by speaking out. You are the courageous one, sir—for you might have lost your daughter—if I had been over sensitive and had taken up your hot words.”
Senator Clearwater showed that he was at a loss to understand. Said he:
“At any rate, it’s all settled. I shall explain to my daughter. For I must ask you not to try to see her again.”
Helm looked at him vaguely.
“It would only cause both you and her pain,” explained Clearwater.
“Yes, it will distress us both to disregard your advice,” said Helm.
“My advice?” inquired the puzzled Clearwater.
“You are advising against her marrying me, as I understand it,” explained George. “Of course, we may be mistaken, but we can’t see it that way.”