"It's no joke, Mr. Pate. I won't recite any prepared speech. I absolutely refuse."
"Say that again. No, don't bother." Pate's brick-red face assumed the color of good claret wine. "Not ordinary, this. You probably thought we wouldn't reimburse you. Five thousand dollars all right?"
"Please, Mr. Pate. I came here to talk with Tom. I want to talk, not recite. Tear up your speech and I'll do it for nothing."
"Can't."
"Don't, then. Good-bye."
"Wait! General, can't you do something?"
"She's not under my jurisdiction. I told her you know your business and she was being—shall we say—something less than sensible."
"General! You never said anything like that. Don't you think I have a right to speak to my fiance?"
"There's something to what you both say." Now the general sounded like he was talking from a prepared speech. If it's a matter of publicity, never hurt anyone's feelings. Straddle that fence. Walk that tight-rope.
"Well, I'll be damned," said Pate. "Show's got to go on. Is that final, Miss Peterson?"