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.”

“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.”

“I never gets a chance.  I never sees her, not by our two selves,” said Chandler, with some heat.  “You don’t seem to understand, Mr. Bunting, that I never do see Miss Daisy alone,” he repeated.  “I hear now that she’s going away Monday, and I’ve only once had the chance of a walk with her.  Mrs. Bunting’s very particular, not to say pernickety in her ideas, Mr. Bunting—­”

“That’s a fault on the right side, that is—­with a young girl,” said Bunting thoughtfully.

And Chandler nodded.  He quite agreed that as regarded other young chaps Mrs. Bunting could not be too particular.

“She’s been brought up like a lady, my Daisy has,” went on Bunting, with some pride.  “That Old Aunt of hers hardly lets her out of her sight.”

“I was coming to the old aunt,” said Chandler heavily.  “Mrs. Bunting she talks as if your daughter was going to stay with that old woman the whole of her natural life—­now is that right?  That’s what I wants to ask you, Mr. Bunting,—­is that right?”

“I’ll say a word to Ellen, don’t you fear,” said Bunting abstractedly.