"It does seem too good to be true, doesn't it? I am like you, dad. I didn't believe any one would hire me. But Mr. Krosson seems to think I've got it in me to—"
"Bosworth," interrupted his father, sternly, "I won't permit you to make an ass of yourself. I forbid you—"
"Hold on, dad," said Bosworth, rather shortly. "We won't discuss it unless we can do so agreeably. I'm going into this thing with all my heart, and I mean to stick to it. There's an end to that. I'm tired of leading an absolutely useless, butterfly life."
"But, my boy, my boy," groaned the other, "this step will blast every prospect of a suitable marriage. Demmit all, no one will marry you."
"I'm not so sure of that," said his son, sticking his hands into his pockets and breathing deeply. "I think, if I'm careful, I can make a very suitable marriage."
"Rubbish! Who'd marry a secretary?" sniffed Mr. Van Pycke, jabbing a chair-back with his cane.
Bosworth radiated joy. "I would!" he cried so emphatically that Mr. Van Pycke almost rose to his toes.
"That's not the point, sir," said he, a little bewildered. "You can't marry yourself."
Bosworth laughed softly, but ventured no explanation to the odd remark. If, during the next ten minutes, his father noticed a detached, far-away look in the young man's eyes, he attributed it to the force of his own arguments. Just as he was beginning to feel that he had succeeded in turning the thoughtful young man from his suicidal course, Bosworth came to himself with a start.
"Beg pardon, dad; my mind must have been wandering. What were you saying?"