again uncertainly; for young Chandler had now advanced to the table, he was looking at Bunting fixedly—the other thought threateningly. "Well, out with it, Joe! Don’t keep me in suspense."
And then a slight smile broke over the young man’s face. "I don’t think what I’ve got to say can take you by surprise, Mr. Bunting."
And Bunting wagged his head in a way that might mean anything—yes or no, as the case might be.
The two men looked at one another for what seemed a very, very long time to the elder of them. And then, making a great effort, Joe Chandler brought out the words, "Well, I suppose you know what it is I want to talk about. I’m sure Mrs. Bunting would, from a look or two she’s lately cast on me. It’s your daughter—it’s Miss Daisy."
And then Bunting gave a kind of cry, ’twixt a sob and a laugh. "My girl?" he cried. "Good Lord, Joe! Is that all you wants to talk about? Why, you fair frightened me—that you did!"
And, indeed, the relief was so great that the room swam round as he stared across it at his daughter’s lover, that lover who was also the embodiment of that now awful thing to him, the law. He smiled, rather foolishly, at his visitor; and Chandler felt a sharp wave of irritation, of impatience sweep over his good-natured soul. Daisy’s father was an old stupid—that’s what he was.
And then Bunting grew serious. The room ceased to go round. "As far as I’m concerned," he said, with a good deal of solemnity, even a little dignity, "you have my blessing, Joe. You’re a very likely young chap, and I had a true respect for your father."
