"Blossom"—Mr. Pottle's voice was humble—"I'm not what you might call——"
There was a sound of clumping feet on the porch outside. Mrs. Gallup started up.
"Oh, that must be him now!" she cried.
"Him? Who?"
"Why, Mr. Deeley."
"Who's he?" queried Mr. Pottle.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you! He said he might call to-night. Such a nice man! I met him over in Xenia last week. Such a brilliant conversationalist. I know you'll like each other."
She hastened to answer the doorbell; Mr. Pottle sat moodily in his chair, not at all sure he'd like Mr. Deeley.
The brilliant conversationalist burst into the room breezily, confidently. He was slightly smaller than a load of hay in his belted suit of ecru pongee; he wore a satisfied air and a pleased mustache.
"Meet Mr. Pottle," said Mrs. Gallup.