This is what she said—
“What’s mine’s yours, dear. Take it. Ask him—buz, buzz, buzz.”
The doctor nodded. Mrs. Hicok stood by him and smiled, still holding in her pretty pink fore-finger the frail shimmering thing just mentioned; and she gave it a twirl, so that it swung quite round. “Isn’t it a love of a bonnet?” she said.
“Yes,” the doctor said aloud. “I adopt the question.”
“Third Question. Which is the front side of this?”
And he pointed to the bonnet. It must have been a bonnet, because Mrs. Hicok called it so. I shouldn’t have known it from the collection of things in a kaleidoscope, bunched up together.
The lady stood before him, and twirled the wondrous fabric round and round, with the prettiest possible unconscious roguish look of defiance. The doctor’s very heart stood still.
“Put it on, please,” said Mr. Lyon, in the most innocent way in the world.
“Oh, no!” laughed she. “I know I’m only a woman, but I’m not quite so silly! But I’ll tell you what: you men put it on, if you think that will help you!” And she held out the mystery to him.
Confident in his powers of discrimination, Mr. Lyon took hold of the fairy-like combination of sparkles and threads and feathers and flowers, touching it with that sort of timid apprehension that bachelors use with a baby. He stood before the glass over the mantelpiece. First he put it across his head with one side in front, and then with the other. Then he put it lengthways of his head, and tried the effect of tying one of the two couples of strings under each of his ears. Then he put it on, the other side up; so that it swam on his head like a boat, with a high mounted bow and stern. More than once he did all this, with obvious care and thoughtfulness.