"The size of her head--the frost--the whole bally conversation!"
propounded Dicky, with tears in his eyes.
I have really a great deal of feeling, and I did not rebuke these terms.
Besides, I could see only one way out of it, and I was occupied with the
best terms in which to present it to Dicky. So I said I didn't know, and
reflected.
"She isn't the same girl!" he groaned.
"Men are always talking in the funny columns of the newspapers," I
remarked absently, "about how much better they can throw a stone and
sharpen a pencil than we can."
Mr. Dod looked injured. "Oh, well," he said, "if you prefer to talk
about something else----"
"But they can't see into a sentimental situation any further than into a
board fence," I continued serenely. "My dear Dick, Isabel thinks you're
engaged. So does her mamma. So does Mr. Mafferton."
"Who to?" exclaimed Mr. Dod, in ungrammatical amazement.
"I looked at him reproachfully. Don't be such an owl!" I said.
Light streamed in upon Dicky's mind. "To you!" he exclaimed. "Great
Scott!"
"Preposterous, isn't it?" I said.
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