"I'll give you a riddle, Miss Hungerford, I will. Ahem! 'Why—why does a hen go around the road,' Miss Hungerford?"
I posed my head in an attitude of deep thought.
"Because," Lovell hastened to say; "because she can't go across—no, that wasn't right—why—ahem! why does a hen go across the road, Miss Hungerford?" and the next instant he was wallowing in the straw at my feet.
My soul was filled with unutterable compassion for him.
"Because," I ventured, when Lovell reappeared again, affecting a tone of lively inspiration: "because she can't go around it?"
"You—you've heard of it before!" gravely protested Lovell.
"I confess," said I, "that I have. It used to be my favorite riddle."
"It—it used to be mine, too," said Lovell. "It used to be, Miss Hungerford—ahem! It used to be—You—you couldn't tell what I was thinking of when I—ahem—when I started from home to-night, now, could you, Miss Hungerford?" said Lovell, at length.
"I'm sure I couldn't, Mr. Barlow," said I: "but I hope it was something very agreeable."
"But it wasn't," said Lovell; "that is, not very, Miss Hungerford; ahem! not very. I was—I was—ahem! I was thinking of it, you know, of—of such a thing as getting married, you know."