Mr. Diggs coloured. He cleared his throat and then glared at Watson, who went grinning from the room. Melissa was a very pretty, rosy young woman, and her eyes flashed dangerously.
"It's a fine old custom," said Mr. Diggs persuasively. "In merry England we hobserve it—er—you might say religiously, and without fear of future complications. It can be done in a dignified fashion if—"
"I don't want to have it done in a dignified fashion," protested Melissa, lifting her round little chin and pursing her lips invitingly. "Do it as if you liked it, not as if you wanted to be religious."
Mr. Diggs became human at once. He laid aside his austerity, and was no longer a butler but a good-looking chap of thirty-five who had the "very Old Nick" in him. It was the sort of kiss that has nothing in common with mistletoe—the sort that DOES lead to future complications. It proved something to Melissa, and she uttered a little sigh of happiness. Mr. Diggs kissed her because he was in love with her.
Unfortunately, Mr. Bingle entered the room at the very instant of least resistance, and coughed.
"Oh, I—I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle, genuinely distressed. It is worthy of note that it was the good little man who apologised, not Diggs.
As the master was accompanied by the tall young newspaper chap, who grinned abominably, both Diggs and Melissa forgot their moment of bliss and fell from a great height. Needless to say, they were speechless.
"It's quite all right, Diggs," said Mr. Bingle, affecting a vast geniality. "What's a mistletoe for if not to—yes, yes, Melissa, it's quite all right. Ahem! Don't you agree with me, Mr. Flanders?"
"Thoroughly," said Mr. Flanders with conviction. "And what's more, Mr. Bingle, I agree with Diggs."
Melissa, crimson to her throat, fled. Mr. Diggs passed his hand over his brow, as if to clear his brain, and then stammered in a voice that strove hard to regain its former impressiveness: