"And—and 'tain't because you can't stand me any longer, same as Mother used to say?"
"Can't stand you? Your mother used to say? What DO you mean, Mr. Winslow?"
"I mean—I mean you ain't goin' because I used to wash my face out in the yard, and—and holler and sing mornin's and look so everlastin' homely—and—and be what everybody calls a town crank— and—"
"Mr. Winslow! PLEASE!"
"And—and you and Babbie would stay right here if—if you thought I wanted you to?"
"Why, of course. But you don't, do you?"
Before Jed could answer the outside door was thrown open without knock or preliminary warning, and Captain Sam Hunniwell, dripping water like a long-haired dog after a bath, strode into the kitchen.
"Mornin', ma'am," he said, nodding to Mrs. Armstrong. Then, turning to the maker of windmills: "You're the feller I'm lookin' for," he declared. "Is what Philander Hardy told me just now true? Is it?"
Jed was dreamily staring out of the window. He was smiling, a seraphic smile. Receiving no reply, Captain Sam angrily repeated his question. "Is it true?" he demanded.
"No-o, no, I guess 'tisn't. I'd know better if I knew what he told you."