“Yes, you've got your hat on yet.”
Whitwell put his hand up and found that his daughter was right. He laughed, and said: “I guess I must 'a' forgot it. We've had the most interestin' season with plantchette that I guess we've about ever had. She's said something here—”
“Well, never mind; I've got something more important to say than plantchette has,” said Cynthia, and she pulled the sheet away from under her father's eyes.
This made him look up at her. “Why, what's happened?”
“Nothing. Jeff Durgin has asked me to marry him.”
“He has!” The New England training is not such as to fit people for the expression of strong emotion, and the best that Whitwell found himself able to do in view of the fact was to pucker his mouth for a whistle which did not come.
“Yes—this afternoon,” said Cynthia, lifelessly. The tension of her nerves relaxed in a languor which was evident even to her father, though his eyes still wandered to the sheet she had taken from him.
“Well, you don't seem over and above excited about it. Did—did your—What did you say—”
“How should I know what I said? What do you think of it, father?”
“I don't know as I ever give the subject much attention,” said the philosopher. “I always meant to take it out of him, somehow, if he got to playin' the fool.”