“You! Yes, yes—but—have mercy upon your petitioner. I do not like your cravats.”
She shut her eyes and stood before him with lowered head.
“My cravats!” cried Dan, in dismay, as his hand went to his throat, “but my cravats are from Paris—Charlie Morson brought them over. What is the matter with them?”
“They—they're too fancy,” confessed Betty. “Papa wears only white, or black ones you know.”
“Too fancy! Nonsense! do you want to send me back to grandfather's stocks, I wonder? It's just pure envy—that's what it is. Never mind, I'll give you the very best one I've got.”
Betty shook her head. “And what should I do with it, pray?” she asked. “Uncle Shadrach wouldn't wear it for worlds—he wears only papa's clothes, you see. Oh, I might give it to Hosea; but I don't think he'd like it.”
“Hosea! Well, I declare,” exclaimed Dan, and was silent.
When he spoke a little later it was somewhat awkwardly.
“I say, did Virginia ever tell you she didn't like my cravats?” he inquired.
“Virginia!” her voice was a little startled. “Oh, Virginia thinks they're lovely.”