Dolf flew into a great rage.
"Miss Clorindy, yer sorrow makes yer forget yerself; yer've ben a dreaming."
Clo drew her apron from her eyes and looked at him; lightning was gathering there which he would have done well to heed, but he did not.
"Does yer mean that?" she demanded, sternly.
"Sartin, I does."
"Yer denies kneelin' at my feet an' sayin', "Wasn't de onions made yer cry;" a pleadin' and a coaxin' till I 'sented to marry yer."
"In course I does," repeated Dolf, doggedly.
"Take care! Jis' tink!"
"Miss Clo, dis ere ain't decorous; I'se 'stonished at yer!"
With a bound like an unchained tigress Clo sprang at him. Dolf dodged, ran behind the startled group, in and out among the chairs, through the kitchen, back again, and Clo at his heels. She had caught up a broom; once or twice she managed to hit him, and her sobs of rage mingled with Dolf's cries of distress.