“The philanthropist!” I exclaimed, dipping my pen in the ink and taking in my other hand the gas bill.
A heavy step sounded in the passage, mingled with a strangely familiar sound of puffing, and then in walked a stout, gray-whiskered, red-faced gentleman whose apoplectic presence could never be forgotten by me. It was my old friend, Mr. Fisher, of Chickawungaree Villa!
“You are—ah—Miss Kerry?” he said, heavily, but with politeness.
As she held out her hand I could see even upon his stolid features unmistakable evidence of surprise and admiration at meeting this apparition in the dinginess of East London.
“Yes,” she said. “And you, I suppose, are—”
“Mr. Fisher—a fisher of—ha, ha!—women, it seems, down here.”
The old Gorgon was actually jesting with a pretty girl! As I thought of him in his diningroom I could scarcely believe my senses.
“And this gentleman,” he said, turning towards me, “is, I suppose—”
He paused; his eyes had met mine, and I fear I was somewhat unsuccessfully endeavoring to conceal a smile.
“Fisher!” I said, holding out my hand. “How do you do?”