"Father, this is my husband."
"How do you do, sir?" began the judge, heavily.
Spike's left forearm shielded his face, while his right hand went to meet the judge's.
"It's all right, Spike. No one else is going to kiss you."
"Spike?" queried the judge, uncertainly.
"It's a sort of nickname for him," explained Winona.
She drew her mother through the doorway and they became murmurous in the parlour beyond.
"This here is a peach of a chair," said Spike.
The judge started painfully. Until this moment he had not detected the outrage.
"Wouldn't you prefer this nice hammock?" he politely urged.