“I have called this morning——”
The left hand of the writer rose and waggled itself irritably above her left shoulder.
“Aunt Lora,” spoke Bailey sternly.
“Shish!” said the authoress. Only that and nothing more. Bailey, outraged, relapsed into silence. The pen squeaked on.
After what seemed to Bailey a considerable time, the writing ceased. It was succeeded by the sound of paper vigorously blotted. Then, with startling suddenness, Mrs. Porter whirled round on the swivel-chair, tilted it back, and faced him.
“Well, Bailey?” she said.
She looked at Bailey. Bailey looked at her. Her eyes had the curious effect of driving out of his head what he had intended to say.
“Well?” she said again.
He tried to remember the excellent opening speech which he had prepared in the cab.
“Good gracious, Bailey!” cried Mrs. Porter, “you have not come here and ruined my morning’s work for the pleasure of looking at me surely? Say something.”