“Well, Captain Snow, I have answered your questions and you have answered mine. Do you think we are any nearer an agreement now?”
Captain Zelotes seemed to awake with a start. “Eh?” he queried. “Agreement? Oh, I don't know. Did you find any—er—what you might call vital objections in the boy's record?”
“No-o. No, all that is all right. His family and his education and all the rest are good enough, I'm sure. But, nevertheless—”
“You still object to the young folks gettin' married.”
“Yes, I do. Hang it all, Snow, this isn't a thing one can reason out, exactly. Madeline is our only child; she is our pet, our baby. Naturally her mother and I have planned for her, hoped for her, figured that some day, when we had to give her up, it would be to—to—”
“To somebody that wasn't Albert Speranza of South Harniss, Mass. . . . Eh?”
“Yes. Not that your grandson isn't all right. I have no doubt he is a tip-top young fellow. But, you see—”
Captain Lote suddenly leaned forward. “Course I see, Mr. Fosdick,” he interrupted. “Course I see. You object, and the objection ain't a mite weaker on account of your not bein' able to say exactly what 'tis.”
“That's the idea. Thank you, Captain.”
“You're welcome. I can understand. I know just how you feel, because I've been feelin' the same way myself.”