"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?"
"I will if I can, my dear; you rather stagger me. Well, I don't know.
Yes; I suppose I must let you be married one of these days--if we can
find a good husband for you. How hot your face is! Lift it up, and let
the air blow over it. You won't? Well--have your own way. If talking of
business means tickling your cheek against my whisker I've nothing to
say against it. Go on, my dear. What's the next question? Come to the
point."
She was far too genuine a woman to do anything of the sort.
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