"Engaged. Engaged!" He made a convulsive motion. "Did you say engaged? To this inane young fool. You're talking nonsense. Go to your cabin, girl."
Dorothy Lane sighed and looked hopefully up at Mallory.
Tim Mallory had forgotten his old and wise quotation.
"Why not engaged," he snapped. "What have you got against me?"
"What," growled Captain Lane. "He asks me what!"
He had a reason; one which he shared with all fond parents who have ever seen a beloved child slipping from their arms—jealousy. Jealousy and grief. Now his mind pounced on a substitute for the true reasons that he would not—could not—name.
"Well, for one thing," he said curtly, "you're not a spaceman. You're nothing but a blasted Earthlubber!"
Mallory grinned.
"You can hardly call me an Earthlubber, Captain. I spent two years on Luna, three on Mars; I'll be five or more on Venus—"
"Pah! Luna ... Mars ... Venus ... you're still a groundhog. I'll not see my girl married to a money-grubbing businessman, Mallory."