Deacon Whittle cleared his throat with an angry, rasping sound.
“Me an’ this young lady came here this morning for the purpose of transacting a little business, mutually advantageous,” he snarled. “If it was anybody but the dominie, I should say he was butting in without cause.”
“Oh, don’t, please!” begged the girl. “Mr. Elliot meant it kindly, I’m sure. I—I want an option, if you please. You’ll let me have it, won’t you? I want it—now.”
Deacon Whittle blinked and drew back a pace or two, as if her eagerness actually frightened him.
“I—I guess I can accommodate ye,” he stuttered; “but—there’ll be some preliminaries—I wa’n’t exactly prepared— There’s the price of the property and the terms— S’pose likely you’ll want a mortgage—eh?”
He rubbed his bristly chin dubiously.
“I want to buy the house,” Lydia said. “I want to be sure—”
“Have you seen the rooms upstairs?” asked the minister, turning his back upon his senior deacon.
She shook her head.
“Well, then, why not—”