The colour heredity of the Andalusian fowl was too much for Bailey.
“I decline to discuss any such drivel,” he said, rising. “I came here to see Ruth, and—”
“And here she is,” said Mrs. Porter.
The door opened, and Ruth appeared. She looked, to Bailey, insufferably radiant and pleased with herself.
“Bailey!” she cried. “Whatever brings my little Bailey here, when he ought to be working like a good boy in Wall Street?”
“I will tell you,” Bailey’s demeanour was portentous.
“He’s frowning,” said Ruth. “You have been stirring his hidden depths, Aunt Lora!”
Bailey coughed.
“Ruth!”
“Bailey, don’t! You don’t know how terrible you look when you’re roused.”