“Why, this is fine! Pop’ll be tickled to death.”
“Is your father coming here too?”
“Well, I should say so! You don’t think I pay calls on strange gentlemen all by myself, do you?” said the lady archly. “But listen! If you’re American, we’re sitting pretty, because it’s only us Americans that’s got real sentiment in them. Ain’t it the truth?”
“I don’t quite understand. Why do you want me to have sentiment?”
“Pop’ll explain all that when he arrives. I’m surprised he hasn’t blown in yet. I didn’t think I’d get here first.” She looked about her. “It seems funny to think of pop as a little kiddy in this very room.”
“Your father was English then?”
“Born in England—born here—born in this very house. Just to think of pop playing all them childish games in this very room!”
Sam began to wish that she would stop. Her conversation was beginning to give the place a queer feeling. The room had begun to seem haunted by a peculiar being of middle-aged face and juvenile costume. So much so that when she suddenly exclaimed, “There’s pop!” he had a momentary impression that a whiskered elder in Lord Fauntleroy clothes was about to dance out from behind the sofa.
Then he saw that his visitor was looking out of the window and, following her gaze, noted upon the front steps a gentleman of majestic port.
“I’ll go and let him in,” he said.