"Not by the inconstant moon," she entreated merrily.
"Well, by my 'gracious self'; what's the rest of it?"
She coloured and drew away from him. His eyes made her self-conscious, ill
at ease; the very carelessness of his look disconcerted her.
"No, do not swear," she begged. "I shall trust you with even so weighty a
confidence. I do not like--"
"Oh, come, why torture me?" he demanded.
She made a little gesture of alarm. "From fear of the wrath to come," she
admitted.
"Of my wrath?" he regarded her with amazement. "Oh, don't you like
_me_?" he exclaimed.
"You! Yes, yes--but--have mercy upon your petitioner. I do not like your
cravats."
She shut her eyes and stood before him with lowered head.
"My cravats!" cried Dan, in dismay, as his hand went to his throat, "but my
cravats are from Paris--Charlie Morson brought them over. What is the
matter with them?"
"They--they're too fancy," confessed Betty. "Papa wears only white, or
black ones you know."
"Too fancy! Nonsense! do you want to send me back to grandfather's stocks,
I wonder? It's just pure envy--that's what it is. Never mind, I'll give you
the very best one I've got."
Betty shook her head. "And what should I do with it, pray?" she asked.
"Uncle Shadrach wouldn't wear it for worlds--he wears only papa's clothes,
you see. Oh, I might give it to Hosea; but I don't think he'd like it."
"Hosea! Well, I declare," exclaimed Dan, and was silent.
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