Mr. Vanstone took his garden hat from the hall table—opened his eyes in mute perplexity—attempted to associate in his mind the two extravagantly dissimilar ideas of Magdalen and “business”—failed—and led the way resignedly into the garden.
His daughter took his arm, and walked with him to a shady seat at a convenient distance from the house. She dusted the seat with her smart silk apron before her father occupied it. Mr. Vanstone was not accustomed to such an extraordinary act of attention as this. He sat down, looking more puzzled than ever. Magdalen immediately placed herself on his knee, and rested her head comfortably on his shoulder.
“Am I heavy, papa?” she asked.
“Yes, my dear, you are,” said Mr. Vanstone—“but not too heavy for me. Stop on your perch, if you like it. Well? And what may this business happen to be?”
“It begins with a question.”
“Ah, indeed? That doesn’t surprise me. Business with your sex, my dear, always begins with questions. Go on.”
“Papa! do you ever intend allowing me to be married?”
Mr. Vanstone’s eyes opened wider and wider. The question, to use his own phrase, completely staggered him.
“This is business with a vengeance!” he said. “Why, Magdalen! what have you got in that harum-scarum head of yours now?”
“I don’t exactly know, papa. Will you answer my question?”