"Mist Bullage! Come in, Mist Bullage. No see you for heap long time,
Mist Bullage."
"I've been busy," said the visitor. "Hadn't much time to come around."
Fong helped him off with the gray overcoat.
"You work awful hard, Mist Bullage. Too hard, not good. You come here and have good time. Lots of fun here now. You come."
He moved to hang the coat on the hatrack, and, as he adjusted it, turned and shot a sharp look over his shoulder at the young man.
"All men who come now not like you, Mist Bullage."
There was something of mystery, an odd suggestion of withheld meaning, in the old servant's manner that made Mark smile.
"How are they different—better or worse?"
Fong passed him, going to the drawing-room door. His hand on the knob, he turned, his voice low, his slit eyes craftily knowing.
"Ally samey not so good. I take care Miss Lolly and Miss Clist—I look out. You all 'ight, you come." He threw open the door with a flourish and called in loud, glad tones, "Miss Lolly, Miss Clist, one velly good fliend come—Mist Bullage."