"I'm paying a formal call at this house."
"Which house?"
"This one. Number sixteen. Waddington, Sigsbee H."
Mr. Waddington regarded him with unconcealed hostility.
"Oh, you are, are you? Well, it may interest you to learn that I am Sigsbee H. Waddington, and I don't know you from Adam. So now!"
George gasped.
"You are Sigsbee H. Waddington?" he said reverently.
"I am."
George was gazing at Molly's father as at some beautiful work of art—a superb painting, let us say—the sort of thing which connoisseurs fight for and which finally gets knocked down to Dr. Rosenbach for three hundred thousand dollars. Which will give the reader a rough idea of what love can do: for, considered in a calm and unbiased spirit, Sigsbee Waddington was little, if anything, to look at.
"Mr. Waddington," said George, "I am proud to meet you."