"About a year, sir," said Robbie, gazing at the floor.
"A year? Humph! And why didn't you tell me about it when you first got into trouble?"
"I—I didn't like to," said Robbie.
"To be sure," said the father, "boys have no business in such scrapes; but still, when you get in them, it is your duty to tell me. And so you want to get married?"
"I—I love her," said the other, turning various shades of red as he found the words sounding queer.
"But, Robbie," protested van Rensselaer père, "one doesn't marry all the women one loves."
Then, after a little pause, the father continued gravely, "Now, my boy, tell me where she is, and I'll arrange it for you."
Robbie started. "You won't be cross to her?" he pleaded.
"Of course not," said the father. "I am never cross with any one. It will all be settled happily, I promise you."
And so a day or two later it was announced that Robbie was going abroad for a year's tour; and when he sought Daisy to bid her good-by, it was reported that Daisy had left for the West—a circumstance which caused Robbie several days' anxiety.