Mr. Whedell twirled the dangerous instrument, and opened and shut it with more than his usual grace, one evening toward the middle of April. He was about to broach a disagreeable subject to his daughter, who, blooming, and exquisitely dressed, sat by the fire and yawned.
"My dear Clementina, you are now twenty years old, and ought to be married. Delays are dangerous. What do you think of Chiffield?"
Mr. Whedell spoke bluntly, and to the point, because he was addressing his own daughter, and also because short speeches suited his natural languor.
"He's a horrid dancer!" said that young lady.
"Granted. But when he does dance, he jingles money in his pocket."
"He's a perfect fright, pa. You won't deny that?"
"I won't deny that he is a plain, substantial gentleman. He has immense feet, and he is a little bald. What of that?"
"Oh! nothing," replied Clementina, in a tone that signified "Everything."
Her father caught the irony of the remark, and said:
"My dear child, I know the natural leaning of your sex to handsome men. You are like your mother there. But remember, they never have any money--as a general rule. I won't undertake to explain the curious fact. But fact it is, you will admit that."