"You may come in, Ann." The doctor slipped on his dressing gown with a resigned sigh. "What man and why milk?"
"I don't know. Aunt Sykes kept him on the veranda till she was sure he wasn't an agent. Now he's in the parlour. Aunt hopes you'll hurry, for you never can tell. He may be different from what he looks."
"What does he look?"
Ann's small hands made an expressive gesture which seemed to envisage something long and lean.
"Queer—like that. He's not old, but he's bald. His eyes screw into you.
His nose," another formative gesture, "is like that. A nawful big nose.
He didn't tell his name."
"If he looks like that, perhaps he hasn't any name. Perhaps he is a button-moulder. In fact I'm almost certain he is—other name Willits. Occupation, professor."
"But if he is a button-maker, he can't be a professor," said Ann shrewdly.
"Oh, yes he can. Button-moulding is what he professes. His line is a specialty in spoiled buttons. He makes them over."
"Second-hand?"
"Better than new."