“On your saffron locks,” he went on, “and by the charm of your sweet face.”
“Blarney!” she retorted. “Who are you that’s wantin’ to see Mrs. Emma Wells?”
“Ah!” he put a long finger to the side of his nose. “I divulge nothing. I don’t know who I am till I’ve seen my confederate, Mr. Dick.”
“Where’s your grip?” she asked suddenly.
“Grip?”
“Yes, grip—bag, carry-all, Gladstone, suitcase?—the thing you carry your sample books in. But you’d better be makin’ off. Mrs. Wells has all the encyclopedias, handy books of information and guide books she’ll need this side of Paradise.”
“But it’s a visit I’m making,” said he.
“You wrote your own invitation, then,” said she.
While they talked so tartly at each other they walked along up the drive and grinned with enjoyment. Only the Celt can understand that this sort of palaver is the salt of living.
“Wrote my own invitation? Indeed I did not,” he insisted. “The lady of the house herself it was who sent me the invitation by my very dear friend, Mr. Dick. You don’t know Mr. Dick?”