"You want to ast me?" says Old Man Wright. "Why didn't you ast her?"
"I thought it better to see if you would consider me as a suitor, sir,"
says he. "It seemed a fairer thing."
"I don't know as a parent ought to consider any man that would ast him
first," says Old Man Wright thoughtful; "but in some ways you're a good
man, and square and successful."
"My profession--my business--being an innkeeper isn't exactly the
highest form of business----"
"Hell! That's got nothing to do with it," says Old Man Wright. "I
imagine my girl might marry most any kind of man if he was the right
sort. But now let's figure on this, Mr. Henderson," says he, "because I
like you. You're some older than she is."
"Yes," says he; "old enough to know a splendid woman like Miss Wright
when I see her. In my business I've seen plenty that ain't."
"That's good," says Old Man Wright. "I like to hear you say that. I
don't blame you for feeling the way you do. And I feel kind to you too,
sir. You're the first man that ever said a kind word to me and my girl
in this town. You're almost the last, as far as that goes. You're as
good as us and we're as good as you, if it comes to that. But now let's
figure a little further. The man that marries my girl, marries
her--there ain't a-going to be no divorce. There may be a funeral if
there's trouble, but there ain't going to be no divorce for Bonnie Bell.
It's death that's going to part her and her husband. You see I got to be
careful about her, don't you?"
"Yes, and you ought to be. I never felt my years as a handicap."
"They ain't, in business," says Old Man Wright. "But now look-a-here: As
you live along together she'll be still young when you're pretty old.
Take ten or fifteen years off of you and ten or fifteen thousand
cocktails, and I'd say 'God bless you!' But the years and the cocktails
is there permanent. You're kind of soft around the stomach, Mr.
Henderson, I'm sorry to say. Ain't you making a mistake in wanting to
marry my girl at all, sir?"