He laughed and his visitor laughed with him.
“I gather,” observed the New Yorker, “that you believe it the better policy to give our young people their heads.”
“In reason—yes, I do. It's my judgment that an affair like this will hurry more and more if you try too hard to stop it. If you don't try at all so any one would notice it, it may run down and stop of itself, the way Calvin's mare did.”
Fosdick nodded reflectively. “I'm inclined to agree with you,” he said. “But does that mean that they're to correspond, write love letters, and all that?”
“Why, in reason, maybe. If we say no to that, they'll write anyhow, won't they?”
“Of course. . . . How would it do to get them to promise to write nothing that their parents might not see? Of course I don't mean for your grandson to show you his letters before he sends them to Madeline. He's too old for that, and he would refuse. But suppose you asked him to agree to write nothing that Madeline would not be willing to show her mother—or me. Do you think he would?”
“Maybe. I'll ask him. . . . Yes, I guess likely he'd do that.”
“My reason for suggesting it is, frankly, not so much on account of the young people as to pacify my wife. I am not afraid—not very much afraid of this love affair. They are young, both of them. Give them time, and—as you say, Snow, the thing may run down, peter out.”
“I'm in hopes 'twill. It's calf love, as I see it, and I believe 'twill pay to give the calves rope enough.”
“So do I. No, I'm not much troubled about the young people. But Mrs. Fosdick—well, my trouble will be with her. She'll want to have your boy shot or jailed or hanged or something.”