“Have been for years. I’m one of those silent, patient fellows who hang around and look a lot but never tell their love....”
“Who is this girl who has entrapped my son?”
“I’ve always been one of those men who....”
“Mr. Mortimer! With your permission we will take your positive qualities, also, for granted. In fact, we will not discuss you at all. You come to me with this absurd story....”
“Not absurd. Honest fact. I had it from my valet who had it from her maid.”
“Will you please tell me who is the girl my misguided son wishes to marry?”
“I don’t know that I’d call him misguided,” said Mr. Mortimer, as one desiring to be fair. “I think he’s a right smart picker! She’s such a corking girl, you know. We were children together, and I’ve loved her for years. Ten years at least. But you know how it is—somehow one never seems to get in line for a proposal. I thought I saw an opening in the summer of nineteen-twelve, but it blew over. I’m not one of these smooth, dashing chaps, you see, with a great line of talk. I’m not....”
“If you will kindly,” said Mrs. Hignett impatiently, “postpone this essay in psycho-analysis to some future occasion, I shall be greatly obliged. I am waiting to hear the name of the girl my son wishes to marry.”
“Haven’t I told you?” said Mr. Mortimer, surprised. “That’s odd. I haven’t. It’s funny how one doesn’t do the things one thinks one does. I’m the sort of man....”
“What is her name?”