Quinney gazed fondly at his daughter. He had almost forgotten the chairs.
"Just like a bit of Chelsea, Mr. Hunsaker. The real soft paste, and as good as she's pretty; the apple of her father's eye. Plays the pianner and the mandoline! Sings like a canary!"
Posy expostulated.
"Father! Please!" She put her finger to her pretty lips.
Hunsaker, feeling that he had known these pleasant people all his life, said significantly:
"You won't keep her long, sir."
"What?"
"Not if there are any spry young men about."
Quinney betrayed real uneasiness. It flashed upon him suddenly that this abominable loss was inevitable. He consoled himself with the reflection that no spry young men had been about. Then he said with unction:
"I'm going to hang on tight to my little girl. She is the gem of my collection. Cost me more than money, too." He sank his voice confidentially. "Nearly cost me her pore dear mother. By Gum! I remember swearing that I'd give up selling imitation oak as the real stuff, if my old Dutch pulled through."