“My savin' soul!” cried Primmie, again. She was rushing to the door, but her mistress intervened.
“Primmie,” she ordered, briskly, “stay where you are!”
She opened the door herself.
“Come right in, Mr. Bangs,” she said. “No, don't stop to tell me about it, but come right in and sit down.”
Galusha looked up at her. His face was speckled with greenish brown spots, giving it the appearance of a mammoth bird's egg. Primmie saw the spots and squealed.
“Lord of Isrul!” she cried, “he's all broke out with it, whatever 'tis! Shall I—shall I 'phone for the doctor, Miss Martha?”
“Be still, Primmie. Come in, Mr. Bangs.”
“Why, yes, thank you. I—ah—WAS coming in,” began Galusha, mildly. “I—”
“You mustn't talk. Sit right down here on the lounge. Primmie, get that rum bottle. Don't talk, Mr. Bangs.”
“But, really, Miss Phipps, I—”