Notwithstanding the grim look around Mr. Lambert’s mouth, Hyacinth held his ground heroically.
“Sir, I love your daughter. I think I have a right to ask you why you object to me as a son-in-law.”
Mr. Lambert turned upon him slowly in his swivel chair, eyed him gravely from head to foot, and then said,
“Yes. Quite so. You have such a right. Very well, then,—I object to your clothes, to begin with.”
“Sir,” said Hyacinth, turning a deep pink, “they can be—changed.”
“No doubt,” said Mr. Lambert. “In the second place I object to your profession,—if you are pleased to call it such.”
“You object to my being an interpreter of nature—an artist, sir?” stammered Hyacinth. “Surely sir—however that too can be changed.” And he bowed his head submissively. “In fact, sir,” he added with an ingenuous expression, “I shall be quite willing to change it.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Lambert. “Well, my dear sir,” a slightly sarcastic smile illumined his rugged features for a moment, and he rose as if he were about to finish off the matter, with his final objection, “well, my dear sir, lastly, I don’t like your name. Perhaps, though” (very ironically), “you can change that!”
Hyacinth hesitated a moment, and then said pathetically,
“Don’t you really like it, sir?”