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."

"Yes," said Chandler, "that's very kind of you, Mr. Bunting. But
how about her--her herself?"

Bunting stared at him. It pleased him to think that Daisy hadn't
given herself away, as Ellen was always hinting the girl was doing.

"I can't answer for Daisy," he said heavily. "You'll have to ask
her yourself--that's not a job any other man can do for you, my lad."