Thankful as long
as she wanted you to?"
"Course I would. I ain't anxious to leave. It's Hannah that's got that
notion. Fust she was dead sot on my workin' here and now she's just as
sot on my leavin'."
"Do you know why she's so--what do you call it?--sot?"
Kenelm fidgeted and looked foolish. "Well," he admitted, "I--I wouldn't
wonder if 'twas account of you, Imogene. Hannah knows I--I like you
fust rate, that we're good friends, I mean. She's--well, consarn it
all!--she's jealous, that's what's the matter. She's awful silly that
way. I can't so much as look at a woman, but she acts like a plumb
idiot. Take that Abbie Larkin, for instance. One time she--ho, ho! I did
kind of get ahead of her then, though."
Imogene nodded. "Yes," she said; "I heard about that. Well, maybe you
can get ahead of her again. You wait a minute."
She went into the living-room. When she came back she had an ink-bottle,
a pen and a sheet of note-paper in her hands.
"What's them things for?" demanded Mr. Kenelm.
"I'll tell you pretty soon. Kenelm, you--you asked me somethin' a while
ago, didn't you?"
Kenelm started. "Why--why, Imogene," he stammered, "I--I don't know's I
know what you mean."
"I guess you know, all right. You did ask me--or, anyhow, you would if I
hadn't said no before you had the chance. You like me pretty well, don't
you, Kenelm?"
This pointed question seemed to embarrass Mr. Parker greatly. He turned
red and glanced at the door.
"Why--why, yes, I like you fust rate, Imogene," he admitted.
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