“See here, Barney,” he demanded, “what are you tryin' to say, anyhow? What's wrong with this Miss Canby? Out with it.”
“Nothing's wrong with her, so far as I know. And yet there isn't anything right. She's good enough, I guess, and she can play the piano like a streak, but she's a fool. She and the gang she is with are bleached-haired, frowzy-headed idiots, who hope they are Bohemians—whatever that is. They like to do what they call unusual things; they like to shock people—think it's smart. Don't let your wife or Gertrude—Gertie, especially—get in with that crowd. They don't belong there. And there's something else.”
He hesitated. Daniel, trembling with anxiety, urged him to continue.
“What is it?” he begged. “What is the somethin' else?”
“Oh, nothing. It isn't my business anyhow. I ought to keep still.”
“Keep still! After sayin' as much as you have? You go ahead or I'll shake it out of you one word at a time. Heave ahead now! I'm waitin'.”
“Well, then, don't get mad. Remember I'm saying it merely as a friend. Is Gertie engaged to be married?”
“Sartin she is. To a fine fellow, too. What of it?”
“Why, this: If she is engaged why is she trotting about with this precious cousin of yours—this Percy Hungerford?”
Captain Dan started violently. He had asked himself that very question many times during the week which had just passed. To have someone else ask it, however, was too much. He bristled up like an angry cat.