"Chosen! But she's no choice left her. She's engaged to me." "She was engaged to you. She's now engaged to him." "To _him_? Who the dev--er--what are you driving at? Who's the man?" "Frank." "Frank!" Andrew stared at his father incredulously. "I don't believe a word of it." "Well, you may ask Frank if you like; but I assure you you can take my word for it." It was characteristic of Andrew's robust mind that, instead of wasting time in noisy vaporings and sentimental sorrow, it seized at once the weak point in the case. "But he can't afford to marry." "Oh, I'll see to that." "_You'll_ see!" shouted Andrew. "Do you mean to say _you've_ had a finger in the pie?" "Four fingers and a thumb," smiled his parent. Once more Andrew, without waste of words in expostulation or commentary, summarized the situation in a sentence-- "This is fair damnable!" "Come, come, my dear fellow," said Mr. Walkingshaw soothingly. "I owe you an explanation, of course, but when you've heard it, I know you'll agree I've done the right thing." "An explanation!" exclaimed Andrew sardonically. "Go on, let's hear it." "I can give you the gist of it in a sentence: she loves Frank, and she doesn't love you. Now, in that case, which of you ought she to marry?" "That's nothing to do with it--" "What! love's nothing to do with marriage?" "When a woman's once engaged, she's got to implement her promise." "Whether it makes her happy or miserable?" "Who was miserable, I'd like to know?" "Ellen." "It's the first I've heard of it." "Do you mean to say you couldn't see it for yourself?" "No, I could not; and even if she was, there's not the shadow of an excuse for your conduct. You're just making a mess of everything you meddle with. Getting me jilted like this! What do you suppose people will say? What'll they be thinking of me? Oh, good Lord!" The unhappy young man brooded somberly. Mr. Walkingshaw lit a cigar, and then settled himself down to remove by gentle argument the cloud that temporarily obscured his son's serenity. "Just look at the thing for a moment in a quiet and reasonable light, Andrew. Happiness, as you are well aware, is the chief aim of humanity. Damn it, our religion teaches us that--or practically that. A kind of warm and amiable gleefulness--that's the ideal. Now, how can a young girl like Ellen be happy or gleeful married to a sober old codger like you, eh? Man, the thing's clean impossible. She's no more suited to you than a lace cover to a coal-scuttle. Well, then what's the obvious thing to do? Hand her over to a brisk young fellow who can do her justice, of course. Besides, just think of your own brother pining away in the--what do they call it?--torrid zone, all for love of a girl who's pining away for love of him. The thing's totally illogical. A society of hedgehogs would have more sense than to allow an arrangement like that. You see my point now, don't you?"