“Gardy, it’s a girl.”
I recalled Chanler’s bachelor fear that some day a shrewd mama would snare him for her young daughter, and the determination with which he had fled whenever he found himself growing interested in a girl in a way that threatened his bachelor’s liberty.
“Arctic Alaska is a long way to run away,” I laughed.
“Hang it, Gardy!” he snapped. “Don’t talk that way. I’m not running away.”
“No?”
“No. I—I’m doing this because I want to—want to—I know it will shock you—but, hang it, Gardy! I want to marry her.”
I had an uncomfortable series of visions: Chanler entangled by some woman, a light actress, probably; family objections, and George being sent away to the Arctic Circle while the family money convinced the woman that she had made a mistake.
“You mean that you’re being sent up here?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, his chin sunk on his chest. “Yes, that’s it; I’m being sent up here.”
“By——”