Mrs. Bubble gasped.
“I reckon he is,” she admitted.
“I’d like to see him, if possible.”
There was another moment of silence, in which Mrs. Bubble strove to readjust herself.
“I’ll call him,” she said, and went in.
Mr. Jonas Bubble, revealed in the light of the open door, proved to be a pursy man of about fifty-five, full of importance from his square-toed shoes to his gray sideburns; he exuded importance from every vest button upon the bulge of his rotundity, and importance glistened from the very top of his bald head.
“I am J. Rufus Wallingford,” said that broad-chested young gentleman, whose impressiveness was at least equal to Mr. Bubble’s importance, and he produced a neatly-engraved card to prove the genuineness of his name. “I was introduced to your daughter at the hotel, and I came down to consult with you upon a little matter of business.”
“I usually transact business at my office,” said Mr. Bubble pompously; “nevertheless, you may come inside.”
He led the way into a queer combination of parlor, library, sitting-room and study, where he lit a big, hanging gasolene lamp, opened his old swinging top desk with a key which he carefully and pompously selected from a pompous bunch, placed a plush-covered chair for his visitor, and seated himself upon an old leather-stuffed chair in front of the desk.
“Now, sir,” said he, swinging around to Wallingford and puffing out his cheeks, “I am ready to consider whatever you may have to say.”