“Can’t you imagine?”
The older man took his partner’s hand, and seemed to want to say something.
“What is it, Mr. Tramlay?” asked Phil, for the silence was somewhat embarrassing.
“My dear fellow,” said the merchant, “a man who has just given away his daughter is usually supposed to have done a great favor.”
“As you certainly have done,” Phil replied.
“Thank you; for I want to ask one in return. Fathers aren’t sole proprietors of their daughters, you know. Mrs. Tramlay—when you speak to her about the affair, as of course you will, be as—be all—do be your most considerate, courteous self, won’t you?”
“I beg you will trust me for that,” said Phil.
“I’m sure I can,—or could, if you understood mothers as well as some day you may.”
“I have a mother, you know,” suggested Phil.
“True, but she had no daughters, I believe? Mothers and daughters—well, they’re not exactly like mothers and sons. Mrs. Tramlay respects you highly, I know, but she may not have seemed as friendly to your suit as you could have liked. Try to forget that, won’t you?—and forgive it, if it has made you uncomfortable?”