"Oh, that's all right," said Charles-Norton, easily. "Don't worry." And thus he had sent back the old gentleman baffled to his high stool.
And then came Dolly's day.
"Dolly! Dolly! Dolly!"
It was morning, before breakfast. Charles-Norton was in the bedroom; Dolly was setting the table in the living-room. She paused, and stood very still, while a little knowing smile parted her lips.
"Dolly! Dolly! Dolly!" Again came the call, unmistakable, music to Dolly's ear. She tip-toed to the door. From within sounded a threshing noise, as of a whale caught in shallows. "Yes. What is it?" she called back melodiously, mastering her desire to rush in.
"Come here, Dolly," said the male voice. "Come here."
"I'm coming," said Dolly, and went in with a slightly bored expression.
"Help me, Dolly," said the perspiring and be-ruffled gentleman within. "I can't—can't—get my coat on."
"Why, Goosie; of course I'll help you."
But the help, although almost sincere, was powerless. The coat would not go on. The sleeves rose to the elbows smoothly, half way to the shoulders with more effort—but here they stuck, refusing to slide over the top of the shoulders. On each side of the spine, almost cracking the shirt, a protuberance bulged which the coat could not leap.