She continued to regard him in a manner hardly in keeping with the fine old traditions of American hospitality.
"Ferris," she said, as the door closed.
"Madam?"
"On no pretext whatever, Ferris, is that person who has just left to be admitted to the house again."
"Very good, madam," said the butler.
4
It was a fair sunny morning next day when George Finch trotted up the steps of Number 16, Seventy-Ninth Street, East, and pressed the bell. He was wearing his dove-grey suit, and under his arm was an enormous canvas wrapped in brown paper. After much thought he had decided to present Molly with his favourite work, Hail, Jocund Spring!—a picture representing a young woman, scantily draped and obviously suffering from an advanced form of chorea, dancing with lambs in a flower-speckled field. At the moment which George had selected for her portrayal, she had—to judge from her expression—just stepped rather hard on a sharp stone. Still, she was George's master-piece, and he intended to present her to Molly.
The door opened. Ferris, the butler, appeared.
"All goods," said Ferris, regarding George dispassionately, "must be delivered in the rear."
George blinked.