May. Dear girl! She is the light of our house.
Roy. Well, I cannot exactly agree with you, having a star of the first magnitude before my eyes. As a matter of course, Mr. Marcus Graves follows. I don’t object to that, but I do object to his secretiveness. Who is he? He seems to have no relatives, no friends: at least he never speaks of them.
May. You know his business?
Roy. Yes. He’s a drummer.
May. A military man. Then you surely should like him.
Roy. A military man——not exactly, our military drummer——musters his men to battle with the rattle of his sheepskin; your civil drummer, with the rattle of his tongue, taps the sheepskin of the men he musters, and too often makes enemies in his own ranks, with short and poor rations not up to sample. Yes; I have become the natural protector of this young lady, and should know something about this ardent suitor who never speaks of marriage.
May. To be sure you should. Well, why don’t you?
Roy. What! Pin him in a corner, and, like a stern parent, ask him who are his parents, and what are his intentions.
May. And what then?
Roy. Ten to one he’ll fly into a passion, tell me it’s none of my business, and quit the house in disgust.