Then, as he had listened, had flashed the question: "Is it really too late?" And he had recalled his old determination that nothing—not even this—should bar the road to his pursuit. So, at the close of Dalrymple's explanation, he was straight in his chair, his hands grasping the arms, every muscle, every nerve, stretched tight, and in his brain, overcoming the boisterous resonance of Dalrymple's mirth, rang his old purposeful refrain: "I will! I will! I will!"
Dalrymple had married her, but it wasn't too late yet.
"Jealous old fellow!" Dalrymple chaffed. "No congratulations for Dolly. Blow up about your notes any time you please. I'll see they're paid."
He took up his hat and stick.
"Want to run along now and break the news to brother-in-law. Sure to find him. He's a late bird."
George stood up.
"Wait a minute," he said, quietly. "Got to say you've put one over, Dalrymple. It was crooked, but it's done. You've settled it, haven't you?"
"Glad you take it reasonably," Dalrymple laughed, turning for the door.
"Wait a minute," George repeated.
Dalrymple paused, apparently surprised at the tone, even and colourless.