“There is out here at the door, Mr. Elwood, a sort of a countryfied, odd-looking old fellow, in rusty brown clothes, that has been insisting on coming in, without being invited here to-night, and without telling his business or even giving his name. And he pressed so hard that we had to drive him back off the steps; but he refused to go away, even then, and kept asking where Mark was.”
“Mark! why, that is my given name: didn’t you know it?” said Elwood, rebukingly.
“No, sir, I didn’t,” replied the fashionable pro tempore lackey. “And if I had, my orders has always been on sech occasions not to admit any but the invited, who won’t send in their names, or tell their business. And I generally calculate to go by Gunter, and do the thing up genteel.”
“Well, well,” said Elwood, impatiently cutting short the other in the defence of his professional character, and leading the way to the door, “well, well, we had better see who he is, perhaps.”
When they reached the front entrance, they caught, by means of the reflected light of the entry and chambers, an imperfect view of the object of their proposed scrutiny, walking up and down the bricked pathway leading to the house. But, not being able to identify the new-comer with any one of his acquaintances, at that distance, Elwood walked down and confronted him; when, after a momentary pause, he seized the supposed intruder by the hand, and, in a surprised and agitated tone, exclaimed:
“My brother Arthur! How came you here?”
“By steam and stage.”
“Not what I meant: but no matter. We were not expecting you; and I fear the waiters have made a sad mistake.”
“As bad an one as I did, perhaps, in declining to be catechized at my brother’s door.”
“No, you were right enough; but the waiters, being only here for the extra occasion,—the bit of flare-up you see we have here to-night,—and not knowing you, thought they must do as others do at such times. So overlook the blunder, if you will, and walk in.”