"Excuse me," he said. "But I've forgotten what I was to say next. I'll have to consult my memorandum-book. Hold my umbrella a minute—over my head please. Thank you."
Then as Mollie did as the queer creature wished, he fumbled in his pockets for a minute and shortly extracting his memorandum-book from a mass of other stuff, he consulted its pages.
"Oh, yes!" he said, with a smile of happiness. "Yes, I've got it now. At this point you were to ask me if I wouldn't like a glass of lemonade, and I was to say yes, and then you were to invite me up-stairs to see your play room. There's some talk scattered in during the lemonade, but, of course, I can't go on until you've done your part."
He gazed anxiously at Mollie for a moment, and the little maid, taking the hint, smilingly said:
"Ah! won't you have a little refreshment, Mr. Me? A glass of lemonade, for instance?"
"Why—ah—certainly, Miss Whistlebinkie. Since you press me, I—ah—I don't care if I do."
And the caller and his hostess passed, laughing heartily, out of the white and gold parlor into the pantry.