"You mean romance, I suppose, and sentiment."
"I mean a sensing of the proportions and a respect for appropriateness even if it interferes with your preconceived plans. Your interest in this girl exists admittedly because of what an alliance with her will do for you: it will bring you closer to the group of operators of which her father is the head, she will preside with credit over your household, through her you may perhaps secure social advantages which now you feel are beyond your reach."
"Isn't all that legitimate?"
"Entirely legitimate, measured by laws of barter and sale,—but to my mind eminently improper when applied to Miss Thatcher."
As Huntington grew more and more intense Cosden's attitude gradually became normal again, and an indulgent expression replaced the serious aspect which his face had assumed as their conversation progressed.
"Well, Monty," he said, slapping him on the back, "you've got that off your mind, and it's a good thing to have happen. What you want is to take your endorsement off my social note; that's all right,—consider it done. Your sentimental notions are great in story-books but less valuable in every-day life. You stick to your ideals, and I will to mine. I've made up my mind to get married, and you know what happens when once my mind is made up."
"You are absolutely hopeless!" Huntington cried despondently.
"Hopeful, you mean," laughed Cosden, "in spite of your gloomy forebodings. What you say ought to shake my confidence in myself, no doubt, but somehow I think I'd rather hear it direct from Miss Thatcher herself. Hello!" he exclaimed as he looked at his watch, "it's time to start. Cheer up, Monty! Really, things aren't half as bad as they look from where you sit!"