“No, there ain't any nevertheless,” he said. “Albert has been with me enough years now so that I know a little about him. And I know that all he wants is your daughter. As to how much she's worth in money or how they're goin' to live after he's got her--I know that he hasn't given it one thought. I don't imagine she has, either. For one reason,” he added, with a smile, “he is too poor a business man to think of marriage as a business, bill-payin' contract, and for another,--for another--why, good Lord, Fosdick!” he exclaimed, leaning forward, “don't you know what this thing means to those two young folks? It means just moonshine and mush and lookin' into each other's eyes, that's about all. THEY haven't thought any practical thoughts about it. Why, think what their ages are! Think of yourself at that age! Can't you remember. . . . Humph! Well, I'm talkin' fifty revolutions to the second. I beg your pardon.” “That's all right, Snow. And I believe you have the situation sized up as it is. Still--” “Excuse me, Mr. Fosdick, but don't you think it's about time you had a look at the boy himself? I'm goin' to ask him to come in here and meet you.” Fosdick looked troubled. “Think it is good policy?” he asked doubtfully. “I want to see him and speak with him, but I do hate a scene.” “There won't be any scene. You just meet him face to face and talk enough with him to get a little idea of what your first impression is. Don't contradict or commit yourself or anything. And I'll send him out at the end of two or three minutes.” Without waiting for a reply, he rose, opened the door to the outer office and called, “Al, come in here!” When Albert had obeyed the order he closed the door behind him and turning to the gentleman in the visitor's chair, said: “Mr. Fosdick, this is my grandson, Albert Speranza. Al, shake hands with Mr. Fosdick from New York.” While awaiting the summons to meet the father of his adored, Albert had been rehearsing and re-rehearsing the speeches he intended making when that meeting took place. Sitting at his desk, pen in hand and pretending to be busy with the bookkeeping of Z. Snow and Company, he had seen, not the ruled page of the day book, but the parental countenance of the Honorable Fletcher Fosdick. And, to his mind's eye, that countenance was as rugged and stern as the rock-bound coast upon which the Pilgrims landed, and about as unyielding and impregnable as the door of the office safe. So, when his grandfather called him, he descended from the tall desk stool and crossed the threshold of the inner room, a trifle pale, a little shaky at the knees, but with the set chin and erect head of one who, facing almost hopeless odds, intends fighting to the last gasp.