But Dad, as unconscious of what was going on round him as a two-months-old baby, would always insist that everything would come out all right.
"Give her time, my boy," he would say, "give her time.

Your mother isn't used to our Western way of rushing things, and she wants a little time to get used to it." "What if she never gets used to it ?" Blakely would ask.
Then Dad would answer: "You're impatient, boy; all lovers are impatient.

Don't I know ?" "But things can't go on this way forever." "Of course they can't," Dad would agree.

"When I think things have gone long enough, I'll have a little talk with your mother myself.
She's a dashed fine-looking woman, your mother--a dashed fine-looking woman! Be patient with her, boy." Poor Dad! Blakely and I were resolved that he should never have that little talk he spoke of with so much confidence.

Ideals are awfully in the way sometimes, but nobody with a speck of decency can bear to stand by and see them destroyed.