"Is the paper which your daughter signed here or at your home?"
"At home, I think; yes, I am quite sure of it."
"Then would you mind walking up there with me so that I may sign it?"
"Why—er, not at all, sir, but we have plenty of time."
"No," Lyman insisted, "it is better to have it over with; and I ask your pardon for not having signed it sooner."
The banker got up, took down his hat, brushed it with the sleeve of his coat and announced his readiness to go. Together they walked out. Lyman assumed an unwonted gaiety. He commented humorously upon the tradesmen standing in their doors. The banker strove to laugh, but his heart was not in the effort. "Yes, sir," said he, "things change and women change, too. And I may make bold to say that my daughter—and my wife, sir—are not exceptions to the—er, rule."
"I don't quite understand," said Lyman.
"I mean, sir, that what at one time might have been distasteful may have become a—er—matter of endearment, you understand."
"I don't know that I do," the cruel tormenter replied.
"A woman's nature is a peculiar thing—a romantic thing, I might almost say. My daughter is strangely influenced by romance, sir. And her peculiar relationship to—ahem—yourself, I might say—"