"I have left my hat upstairs," he said, hypocritically, "and there are some flowers which I brought for your sister, and I think they ought to be put in water." This appealed at once to Mollie.
"Oh, certainly," she said; and as she limped down the passage before him, a pained look came in Ingram's eyes.
"Oh, what a grievous pity," he thought, "that lovely face to be allied with such a cruel infirmity."
"Oh, what flowers!" exclaimed Mollie, burying her face in them; and then she glanced at the card shyly. "Moritz Ingram." What a nice name! Yes, he was rather nice, too. In spite of his droll looks, she liked his voice; but, all the same, if he would only go! He ought to go—and Ingram evidently shared this opinion, for he was hunting sedulously for his hat; and as his efforts were unavailing, Mollie was obliged to go to his help.
"I brought it upstairs," he kept saying. "'Manners makye man,' and I was always remarkable for my good manners. Why, even your sister took me for a Frenchman." And at this Mollie broke into a merry laugh, and Ingram's eyes twinkled sympathetically.
The next minute the door-bell rang again, and Mollie, who had just discovered the hat underneath the sofa—though how it got there, no one knew—was just going to dart to the door, when a cracked voice called out, "Cat's meat!" and the faint mewing of Mrs. Muggins was clearly audible in the distance and then Noel strolled in. He looked at Ingram in unfeigned amazement; then, being an acute lad, he grinned.
"Noel, this is Mr. Ingram, the gentleman Waveney saw in the omnibus yesterday."
"I recognised myself," returned Ingram, with an airy wave of the hand towards the picture, "though perhaps it is not a speaking likeness—a sort of cross between Mephistophiles and Daniel Quilp, with perhaps a soupçon of the Artful Dodger. I prefer to sit for my own portrait, don't you know."
Then Noel grinned again, rather sheepishly. For once he was reaping the just reward of his impudence.
"You are a humourist, my young friend," continued Ingram, blandly. "I am an Idealist. All my life—and I am exactly thirty seven—I have been seeking 'the impossible she.' That does not mean" (interrupting himself, as though he feared to be misunderstood) "any individual woman. Oh dear, no; originality is my favourite fetish."