“I, too, am an old man,” he murmured.
“A hardy sixty, I should guess.”
“A long life. Might I ask you a question, sir,’ as to the folk in this Square?” He hesitated a moment after I had nodded. “Are they, as one might say, friendly? Neighborly?”
I was a little taken aback. “We are not an intrusive people.”
“No one,” he said, “has been to see my clocks.”
I began to perceive that this was a sad little man, and to mislike my errand. “You live here quite alone?” I asked.
“Oh, no!” said he quickly. “You see, I have Willy Woolly. Pardon me. I have not yet presented him.”
At his call the fluffy poodle ambled over to me, sniffed at my extended hand, and, rearing, set his paws on my knee.
“He greets you as a friend,” said my new acquaintance in a tone which indicated that I had been signally honored. “I trust that we shall see you here often, Mr. Dominie. Would you like to inspect my collection now?”
Here was my opening. “The fact is—” I began, and stopped from sheer cowardice. The job was too distasteful. To wound that gentle pride in his possessions which was obviously the life of the singular being before me—I couldn’t do it. “The fact is,” I repeated, “I—I have a friend outside waiting for me. The Little Red Doctor—er—Dr. Smith, you know.”