I laid my copy before him. He read it slowly, turning it over once or twice. Then he handed it back to me.
"I suppose it is useless to ask you to wait until Helen is twenty-one," he said, peering at me over his glasses.
"Quite," I answered firmly, for I began to feel it was time we spoke for ourselves and ceased to play children to please the family.
"I suppose you know that in this state a minor has to have the consent of her parents before she can be married?" he said, still looking steadily at me.
"Yes." I spoke rather impudently. "Helen and I looked up the law for ourselves. But there is another state not far away where eighteen is the legal age."
"You will do me a favour if you do not speak in that tone." It was not often that he spoke sharply.
"I beg your pardon," I apologized. "Helen and I intend to get married—that's all I meant to imply."
"Ted"—he relaxed just a little—"when I gave my consent to your engagement, I did so with the understanding that you two children loved each other and intended to marry. I am sorry, more sorry than I can tell you or than either of you would understand, that it has happened when Helen is so young. Only last year she was at school," and he looked out the window at the dusty street. "I want my daughter to be happy—" he paused. "There isn't a great deal of happiness to be found in this world, Ted. I want her to have her share—that's all." Once more he paused. "As for the date of the wedding, you must settle that with Helen's mother. Your father expects you in August?"
"Yes, sir," I replied, getting to my feet.
"I suppose that means it will have to be the end of July. Ted, you are asking a great deal of me—she's all the happiness I have." He looked around at his office. "I've never refused her anything she's asked—if I could give it her. I shan't now," and he held out his hand. I could think, of nothing to say, except silly-sounding words, so I said nothing, but took his hand.