Just here occurred the accident already described. Knife and fish ball descended upon the waistcoat belonging to the “Sunday suit.” Lavinia flew for warm water, ammonia, and a cloth, and the soiled waistcoat was industriously scrubbed. The cleansing process was accompanied by a lively tongue lashing, to which Kyan paid little attention.
“Engaged?” he kept repeating. “Gracie Van Horne engaged? Engaged? En—”
“Be still, you poll parrot! Dear! dear! dear! look at them spots. Yes, yes; don't say it again; she's engaged.”
“Who—who—who—”
“Now you've turned to an owl, I do believe. 'Hoo! hoo!' She's engaged to Nat Hammond, that's who. Nothin' very surprisin' about that, is there?”
Kyan made no answer. He rubbed his forehead, while his sister rubbed the grease spots. In jerky sentences she told of the engagement and how the news had reached her.
“I can't believe it,” faltered Abishai. “She goin' to marry Nat! Why, I can't understand. I thought—”
“What did you think? See here! you ain't keepin' anything from me, be you?”
The answer was enthusiastically emphatic.
“No, no, no, no!” declared Kyan. “Only I didn't know they was—was—”