Don lighted a cigarette. The further he went, the less interest he was taking in this explanation. Stuyvesant’s apparent indifference irritated him.
“That was a year ago,” Don resumed. “To-day I’m drawing the same salary I started with––twelve hundred. I expect a raise soon––perhaps to twenty-five hundred. But the point is this: I figure that it’s going to take me some five years to get that ten thousand. I don’t want to wait that long before marrying Frances. Another point is this: I don’t think any longer that it’s necessary. I figure that we can live on what I’m earning now. So I’ve put it up to her.”
Don had hurried his argument a little, but, as far as he was concerned, he was through. The whole situation was distasteful to him. The longer he stayed here, the less it seemed to be any of Stuyvesant’s business.
“You mean you’ve asked my daughter to marry you on that salary?” inquired Stuyvesant.
“I asked her this afternoon,” nodded Don. “I suggested that we get married to-morrow or next day. You see, I’m on my vacation, and I have only two weeks.”
Stuyvesant flicked the ashes from his cigar. “What was her reply?”
“She wanted me to put the proposition before you. That’s why I’m here.”
“I see. And just what do you expect of me?”
“I suppose she wants your consent,” answered Don. “Anyhow, it seemed only decent to let you know.”