So Albert told his love story. When he had finished Captain Zelote's pipe was empty, and he put it down.
“Albert,” he said slowly, “I judge you mean this thing seriously. You mean to marry her some day.”
“Yes, indeed I do. And I won't give her up, either. Her mother—why, what right has her mother got to say—to treat her in this way? Or to call me what she calls me in that letter? Why, by George—”
“Easy, son. As I understand it, this Madeline of yours is the only child the Fosdicks have got and when our only child is in danger of bein' carried off by somebody else—why, well, their mothers and fathers are liable to be just a little upset, especially if it comes on 'em sudden. . . . Nobody knows that better than I do,” he added slowly.
Albert recognized the allusion, but he was not in the mood to be affected by it. He was not, just then, ready to make allowances for any one, particularly the parental Fosdicks.
“They have no business to be upset—not like that, anyhow,” he declared. “What does that woman know about me? What right has she to say that I ensnared Madeline's affection and all that rot? Madeline and I fell in love with each other, just as other people have, I suppose.”
“You suppose right,” observed Captain Zelotes, dryly. “Other people have—a good many of 'em since Adam's time.”
“Well, then! And what right has she to give orders that I stop writing or seeing Madeline,—all that idiotic stuff about ceasing and terminating at once? She—she—” His agitation was making him incoherent—“She talks like Lord Somebody-or-other in an old-fashioned novel or play or something. Those old fools were always rejecting undesirable suitors and ordering their daughters to do this and that, breaking their hearts, and so on. But that sort of thing doesn't go nowadays. Young people have their own ideas.”
“Um-hm, Al; so I've noticed.”
“Yes, indeed they have. Now, if Madeline wants to marry me and I want to marry her, who will stop us?”