Then he made arrangements for the delivery of the sideboard, and went home to find a dapper, middle-aged gentleman walking down the drive.
“How-de-do. Just been to call on you. Sorry to find you out,” said the dapper gentleman.
“Do come in,” said Andy, “and have a cup of tea.”
“Sorry I can’t. But I’ll go back with you for a few minutes, if I may. Fact is, I told my daughter to bring the cart round here for me at four. She’s gone off to a sale or something. Queer taste. But it’s better than developing nerves. If a female of my household developed nerves I should—er—duck her.”
“Sensible plan,” said Andy, wisely shaking his head. “Most women are as full of fancies as an egg is full of meat.”
“Just so, just so,” said the dapper gentleman, sitting very straight. And thus they disposed of the mystery and tragedy of womanhood.
“Miss Elizabeth Atterton is here with the cart, sir,” said the little maid, putting her head in at the door.
“Ha, my daughter’s here early,” said Mr. Atterton, rising.
Andy accompanied him to the cart, where Miss Elizabeth Atterton stood holding the head of a rather restive pony. The light shone full on her face, showing most clearly the gold in her brown hair and in her eyes and in her exquisite skin, which was of a deep cream with a faint red in the cheeks-not at all like milk and roses, but like some perfect fruit grown in the youth of the world. Her features were irregular, the upper lip being rather too long and the nose broad and short, but her forehead and her eyes were very lovely.
“My daughter Elizabeth,” said Mr. Atterton, as Andy took the pony’s head. “Oh, by the way, my gloves,” and he bolted back to fetch them.