"And my butterfly necktie with—"
"Wiss the di'mond on?" whispered his father.
They laughed in confidence of their secret. Seffy, the successful wooer, was thawing out again. The diamond was not a diamond at all—the Hebrew who sold it to Seffy had confessed as much. But he also swore that if it were kept in perfect polish no one but a diamond merchant could tell the difference. Therefore, there being no diamond merchant anywhere near, and the jewel being always immaculate, Seffy presented it as a diamond and had risen perceptibly in the opinion of the vicinage.
"And—and—and—Sef—Seffy, what you goin' to do?"
"Do?"
Seffy had been absorbed in what he was going to wear. "Yas—yas—that's the most important." He encircled Seffy's waist and gently squeezed it. "Oh, of course! Hah? But what yit?"
I regret to say that Seffy did not understand.
"Seffy," he said impressively, "you haf' tol' me what you goin' to wear. It ain't much. The weather's yit pooty col' nights. But I ken stand it if you ken—God knows about Sally! Now, what you goin' to do—that's the conuntrum I ast you!"
Still it was not clear to Seffy.
"Why—what I'm a-going to do, hah? Why—whatever occurs."