Coddle. Not so fast; you can’t go to her yet. If you could have heard a word she said, you shouldn’t have my daughter. Do you catch my idea?
Whitwell (shouts). With great difficulty, like my hare.
Coddle (shouts). Perhaps you may not have noticed that I’m a trifle deaf.
Whitwell. Ha, ha! a trifle deaf! I should say so. (Shouts.) I think I did notice it.
Coddle. A little hard of hearing, so to speak.
Whitwell (shouts). You must be joking.
Coddle. Effect of smoking? Tut! I never smoke,—or hardly ever. You see, young man, I live here entirely alone with my daughter. She talks with nobody but me, and is as happy as a bird the livelong day.
Whitwell (aside). She must have a sweet old time of it.
Coddle. Now, suppose I were to take for a son-in-law one of the dozen who have already teased my life out for her,—a fellow with his ears entirely normal: of course they’d talk together in their natural voice, and force me to be incessantly calling out, “What’s that you’re saying?” “I can’t hear; say that again.” You understand? Ah! the young are so selfish. The thing’s preposterous, of course. Now, with a son-in-law like yourself,—deaf as a door-post,—this annoyance couldn’t happen. You’d shout at your wife, she’d shout back, of course, and I’d hear the whole conversation. Catch the idea?