"James Bowdoin, you're a d—d fool!" sputtered his irate sire. "You talk as your wife might talk. This is an affair of men. Jamie," he added very gently, "you are quite right. My boy's an ass." He put his hand on Jamie's shoulder. "You'll find some fine young fellow to marry her yet, and she'll bring you—grandchildren."
"I may—I need hardly ask you to forget this?" said Jamie timidly, and making hastily for the door.
"Of course; and she shall stay in her old home where she was bred from a child, and, d—n 'em, my grandchildren shall go to see her there"—But the door had closed.
"James Bowdoin, if my son, with his d—d snicker, were one half so good a gentleman as that old clerk, I'd trust him with—with an earl's daughter," said the old gentleman inconsequently, and violently rubbing a tingling nose.
"I think you're right, governor," said James Bowdoin. "Did you notice how spruced up and young the poor fellow was? I wish to goodness I hadn't laughed, though. He might have married the girl. Why not? How old is he?"
"Why not? Ask her. He may be forty, more or less."
"What a strange thing to have come into the old fellow's life! And we thought it would give him something to care for! I never fancied he loved her that way."
"I don't believe now he loves her so much that way—as—as he loves her," said old Mr. Bowdoin, as if vaguely. "She isn't worth him."
"She's really quite beautiful. I never saw a Spanish girl before with hair of gold."
"Pirate gold," said old Mr. Bowdoin.