“Father object?”
“I’m not bothering much about him.”
“Then you mean the day hasn’t been set. That’s a difficulty easily overcome, my boy.”
The retired Thespian gives a melo-dramatic groan.
“Confound it all! thanks to this modesty on my part, though I’ve seen the dear girl dozens of times, I’ve never dared address her.”
Craig remains silent. In his mind he is resolving the question of his friend’s sanity. He has known him for a jolly dog in times gone by, but his eccentricities as revealed on this occasion certainly stamp him the most astonishing and original fellow Craig has ever met.
“See here, Wycherley, you’re bent on muddling me up to-night. Explain this puzzle. How is it you are bent on marrying a girl to whom, as you confess, you have never even been introduced?” he finally demands somewhat shortly, as if a suspicion has flashed across his brain that the other may be guying him—Craig has had previous acquaintance with such practical jokes as Americans love to play.
“Oh, he will fix all that!” returns Claude, knocking the ashes from his pipe, with a manner that speaks of remarkable sang froid.
“He? You will have to explain who is meant. Have you entered into a league with the father?”
“Great Scott! no. It’s Aroun Scutari, the Turk.”