"Very singular why no one comes!" he reflected; then his eyes fell on Lionel, who, at this moment, emerged from the shrubbery in a wide-brimmed straw hat and carrying a watering-pot. His trousers were mud-stained, his hands were red and roughened with toil, but his face radiated the shining brightness of one who is conscious of his own well-doing.
"One moment, please!" called Ferdinand Spooner, with an air of authority.
Lionel came forward slowly, still carrying his watering-pot. "Do you want to see me?" he asked.
"Well—er—not exactly, but—er—I am Mr. Spooner, Mr. Ferdinand Spooner, of the Progressive Mothers."
"Oh, I say, are you one of the Progressive Mothers?"
Spooner stared haughtily at this. "I am the secretary of the Progressive Mothers' Society and I desire to see Mr. Lionel Fitz-Brown. Will you give him my card, there's a good man?"
"Is it anything important?" drawled Lionel. "I don't think Mr. Fitz-Brown is up yet."
"Not up yet? Why, it's nearly one o'clock."
"I mean to say he's taking his afternoon bawth. He's very particular about his afternoon bawth, Mr. Lionel Fitz-Brown is. Can't you tell me your business?" Then, very confidentially, "I'm the gardener, you know."
The newcomer thought a moment. "Could you say that Mr. Ferdinand Spooner has called in regard to certain articles purchased by Mr. Fitz-Brown at the Progressive Mothers' bazaar? It's a small matter, only fourteen pounds, but—tell Mr. Fitz-Brown that we would like very much to have his check."