“Yes, but your father’s a regular typhoon. I say, though, wouldn’t it be premature?”
“Of course not.”
“You would go—really?”
“If I cared for the lady, certainly,” said Neil, laughing at the combination of frank, manly daring and shrinking bashfulness before him. “It is not capital punishment if you fail.”
“No,” said Beck thoughtfully, “it isn’t. I’ve no cause to be afraid, have I?”
“Not a bit.”
“Then hang it all, I will the first moment I can get your father alone.”
“Bravo, brave man!” cried Neil merrily.
“Ah, it’s all very well for you to laugh, old fellow. You don’t know how bad it is. But I say, Neil, you wouldn’t mind, would you?”
“My dear Tom,” said Neil, clapping him warmly on the shoulder, “it seems to me something like sacrilege for a man to come here to the old home, and to want to rob us of my darling, innocent little sister; but if it is to be I do not know a man to whom I would sooner see her given than you.”