"How was she to know that? You tell her you are an artist, and she naturally imagines you...."
The telephone rang shrilly, interrupting Mr. Beamish's flow of thought. There was an impatient frown on his face as he unhooked the receiver, but a moment later this had passed away and, when he spoke, it was in a kindly and indulgent tone.
"Ah, Molly, my child!"
"Molly!" cried George.
Hamilton Beamish ignored the exclamation.
"Yes," he said. "He is a great friend of mine."
"Me?" said George.
Hamilton Beamish continued to accord him that complete lack of attention characteristic of the efficient telephoner when addressed while at the instrument.
"Yes, he has been telling me about it. He's here now."
"Does she want me to speak to her?" quavered George.