“How-de-do. Just been to call on you. Sorry to find you out,” said the dapper gentleman.
“Do come in,” said Andy, “and have a cup of tea.”
“Sorry I can’t. But I’ll go back with you for a few minutes, if I may. Fact is, I told my daughter to bring the cart round here for me at four. She’s gone off to a sale or something. Queer taste. But it’s better than developing nerves. If a female of my household developed nerves I should—er—duck her.”
“Sensible plan,” said Andy, wisely shaking his head. “Most women are as full of fancies as an egg is full of meat.”
“Just so, just so,” said the dapper gentleman, sitting very straight. And thus they disposed of the mystery and tragedy of womanhood.
“Miss Elizabeth Atterton is here with the cart, sir,” said the little maid, putting her head in at the door.
“Ha, my daughter’s here early,” said Mr. Atterton, rising.
Andy accompanied him to the cart, where Miss Elizabeth Atterton stood holding the head of a rather restive pony. The light shone full on her face, showing most clearly the gold in her brown hair and in her eyes and in her exquisite skin, which was of a deep cream with a faint red in the cheeks-not at all like milk and roses, but like some perfect fruit grown in the youth of the world. Her features were irregular, the upper lip being rather too long and the nose broad and short, but her forehead and her eyes were very lovely.
“My daughter Elizabeth,” said Mr. Atterton, as Andy took the pony’s head. “Oh, by the way, my gloves,” and he bolted back to fetch them.
“I am afraid I ran the price of your sideboard up,” said Elizabeth stiffly.
“Not at all,” said Andy, with equal stiffness.
Then Mr. Atterton came out, and the little cart clattered away through the lilac-scented afternoon.
NOTHING could be less like a messenger of Fate than a mahogany sideboard with a plate-glass back.
“Here’s Mrs. Simpson’s little girl for the third time since seven!” said Mrs. Jebb, coming hastily into the room, with ribbon-strings all aflutter about her, as usual.
“What does she want?” said Andy, buttering his toast.
“Something about a sideboard,” said Mrs. Jebb, poised, as it were, upon one hand at the table corner. “Three times before breakfast about a sideboard! You really must make a stand, or you will never have a minute to call your own. You are too good-natured.”