“You’ve got to give him a job!” Fanny repeated, loudly.
“A job?” Wallace echoed, still mystified.
Fanny nodded vigorously. “M’m—h’m!”
“Where?” Wallace asked, glancing vaguely round the room, as if searching for a spot where Guy might be safely employed.
“In the factory,” said Fanny, decisively.
Wallace pointed toward Guy, who stood looking helpless and foolish. He felt as children do when their mothers discuss in their presence their appearance and their infantile diseases. “What? Him?” Wallace asked.
“Yes, him,” Fanny declared, resentfully. “Now don’t you go and make fun of your future son-in-law, dad.”
Wallace was still struggling with astonishment, either real or assumed. “In the factory?”
“Yes,” said Fanny, lifting her eyebrows.
Wallace faced Guy. “You’re willing to soil those white hands of yours, sir?”