“Let’s see.” Harlan went to the window and looked over her shoulder. A little man in a huge silk hat was toiling up the hill, aided by a cane. He was bent and old, yet he moved with a certain briskness, and, as Dorothy had said, he was inevitably coming.
“Who in thunder—” began Harlan.
“Our first company,” interrupted Dorothy, with her hand over his mouth. “The very first person who has called on us since we were married!”
“Except Claudius Tiberius,” amended Harlan. “Isn’t a cat anybody?”
“Claudius is. I beg his imperial pardon for forgetting him.”
The rusty bell-wire creaked, then a timid ring came from the rear depths of the house. “You let him in,” said Dorothy, “and I’ll go and fix my hair.”
“Am I right,” queried the old gentleman, when Harlan opened the door, “in presuming that I am so fortunate as to address Mr. James Harlan Carr?”
“My name is Carr,” answered Harlan, politely. “Will you come in?”
“Thank you,” answered the visitor, in high staccato, oblivious of the fact that Claudius Tiberius had scooted in between his feet; “it will be my pleasure to claim your hospitality for a few brief moments.
“I had hoped,” he went on, as Harlan ushered him into the parlour, “to be able to make your acquaintance before this, but my multitudinous duties——”