He did not emerge from the house for five days. By that time he was fairly presentable.
It was Annie’s day out, so he took Phoebe for a little walk. As for Phoebe, she never passed a certain door upstairs without kicking at it with first one, then the other of her tiny feet, in revenge for the way it had hurt her father by remaining open so that he could bump into it on that bloody, terrifying day. She sent little darts of exquisite pain through him by constantly alluding to the real devastator as “that nice Mr. Fairy-fax.” It was her pleasure to regard him as a great big fairy who had promised her in secret that she would some day be like Cinderella and have all the riches the slipper showered upon that poor little lady.
As they were returning home after a stroll through a rather remote street, they came upon Mr. Butler, who was down on his knees fixing something or other about his automobile. Harvey 100 thought it a good opportunity to start his crusade against New York City.
“Hello,” he said, halting. Butler looked up. He was mad as a wet hen to begin with.
“Hello,” he snarled, resuming his work.
“I’ve been thinking about that little––”
“Get out of the light, will you?”
Harvey moved over, dragging Phoebe after him.
“That little scheme of ours to dine together in town some night. You remember we talked about it––”
“No, I don’t,” snapped Butler.