"There I agree with you."
"She is wonderfully well-bred—I do not understand it. I could pass her, anywhere, for a distinguished foreigner—a foreigner of noble birth."
The father of the subject of her praise smiled gravely. "That is very true. She will—what you call it?—look the part."
"But to be quite frank," the lady went on "you, yourself, are quite impossible, Herr Kreutzer. Quite impossible, I must assure you."
"I, impossible? I—you say that I am quite impossible?"
She nodded very positively. "I don't like to hurt your feelings, my dear man; but I must make you understand. I can't have people saying that my dear son's father-in-law is a shabby old musician—a flute-player in a theatre. You see that clearly, don't you. How could I—"
"It is quite true," Herr Kreutzer admitted humbly. "I am a shabby old flute-player and you do not make it quite as bad as it is really, Madame." He looked at her and smiled a rueful smile. "It is not even a theatre in which I play, Madame, it is a beer-garden."
"A beer-garden!" she cried in horror. "Oh—Herr Kreutzer! Worse and worse!" Then, wheedlingly: "Listen. You say you love your daughter."
"Yes; surely; I love my daughter very dearly—almost as much, perhaps, as Madame loves her son. Almost. Almost."
"You would have gone to prison for her."