“The poor child actually believes herself in love with him,” wrote the poor child's mother. “She protests ridiculously that she is engaged to him and will marry him in spite of her father or myself or the protests of sensible people. I write to you, therefore, assuming you likewise to be a sensible person, and requesting that you use your influence with the—to put the most charitable interpretation of his conduct—misguided and foolish young man and show him the preposterous folly of his pretended engagement to my daughter. Of course the whole affair, CORRESPONDENCE INCLUDED, must cease and terminate AT ONCE.”
And so on for two more pages. The color had returned to Albert's cheeks long before he finished reading. When he had finished he rose to his feet and, throwing the letter upon his grandfather's desk, turned away.
“Well, Al?” queried Captain Zelotes.
Albert's face, when he turned back to answer, was whiter than ever, but his eyes flashed fire.
“Do you believe that?” he demanded.
“What?”
“That—that stuff about my being a—a sneak and—and ensnaring her—and all the rest? Do you?”
The captain took his pipe from his mouth.
“Steady, son, steady,” he said. “Didn't I tell you before you begun to read at all that I didn't necessarily believe it because that woman wrote it.”
“You—you or no one else had better believe it. It's a lie.”