Mr. Waddington got about half-way towards a look of dignity.
"I am not aware, my dear child," he said, "that anything has 'become of me.' I merely snatched the opportunity of having a quiet talk with this young friend of mine from the West."
"Well, you can't have quiet talks with your young friends when you've got a lot of important people to dinner."
"Important people!" Mr. Waddington snorted sternly. "A bunch of super-fatted bits of bad news! In God's country they would be lynched on sight."
"Mr. Brewster Bodthorne has been asking for you particularly. He wants to play checkers."
"Hell," said Mr. Waddington, with the air of quoting something out of Dante, "is full of Brewster Bodthornes."
Molly put her arms round her father's neck and kissed him fondly—a proceeding which drew from George a low, sharp howl of suffering like the bubbling cry of some strong swimmer in his agony. There is a limit to what the flesh can bear.
"Darling, you must be good. Up you go at once and be very nice to everybody. I'll stay here and entertain Mr.——"
"His name is Pinch," said Mr. Waddington, rising reluctantly and making for the door. "I met him out on the side-walk where men are men. Get him to tell you all about the West. I can't remember when I've ever heard a man talk so arrestingly. Mr. Winch has held me spell-bound. Positively spell-bound. And my name," he concluded, a little incoherently, groping for the door-handle, "is Sigsbee Horatio Waddington and I don't care who knows it."
3