“Edith,” began Mr. In, stepping toward her hilariously and making a sweeping bow, “darling, good morning.”
The stout man glanced questioningly at Edith, as if merely asking her permission to throw this man summarily out of the way.
“’Scuse familiarity,” added Peter, as an afterthought. “Edith, good-morning.”
He seized Dean’s elbow and impelled him into the foreground.
“Meet Mr. In, Edith, my bes’ frien’. Inseparable. Mr. In and Mr. Out.”
Mr. Out advanced and bowed; in fact, he advanced so far and bowed so low that he tipped slightly forward and only kept his balance by placing a hand lightly on Edith’s shoulder.
“I’m Mr. Out, Edith,” he mumbled pleasantly. “S’misterin Misterout.”
“’Smisterinanout,” said Peter proudly.
But Edith stared straight by them, her eyes fixed on some infinite speck in the gallery above her. She nodded slightly to the stout man, who advanced bull-like and with a sturdy brisk gesture pushed Mr. In and Mr. Out to either side. Through this alley he and Edith walked.
But ten paces farther on Edith stopped again—stopped and pointed to a short, dark soldier who was eying the crowd in general, and the tableau of Mr. In and Mr. Out in particular, with a sort of puzzled, spell-bound awe.