“Oh, no,” said the Cousin. “The Mr. Freeman I mean is the son of the consul-general to Japan—he’s a San Francisco man, and he’s been everywhere. We met him first in Cairo, and then we played together in Yokohama, and came as far as Honolulu together, last spring. He decided to study law in New York, and I know he lives up here somewhere.”
“Such a nice young fellow!” contributed the Aunt.
“Don’t know him,” said the flock.
“We’ll ask the Goat about him,” suggested the Philadelphia Lamb.
“We’ve been so engrossed with our own pet Freeman that we haven’t had time for any other,” volunteered the Brookline Lamb.
“It’s rather strange,” began the Cousin, and then interrupted herself. “Anyway, I hope you’ll all look him up; I am sure he will be very grateful.” The flock acknowledged the bouquet by appropriate demonstrations.
“Our acquaintance with his namesake verges on the altruistic, also,” ventured the Albany Lamb.
“I should not like, myself, to be the victim of your altruism,” said the Cousin, with a slow glance that took them all in. In the midst of the delighted expostulations that greeted this shot, the apartment bell rang sharply. The Brookline Lamb, being nearest, went to open the door, and, having opened it, remarked in a subdued but unmistakably sincere manner:
“Well, I’ll be——” A saving recollection of the Cousin and the Aunt brought him to a full stop there, but everybody looked up, and for a moment the flock was speechless. Not so the Goat, for it was the Goat who stood there, arrayed in the afternoon panoply of advanced civilization, with a cigarette between his fingers and the neatest of sticks under his arm.
“Beg pardon!” he said. “Didn’t realize—regret exceedingly—should never have intruded—why, Miss Brewster!” And with an instant combination of high hat, stick and cigarette that showed much practice, he came in to shake hands with the Cousin, who, suddenly displaying a brilliant color, had risen and taken a step toward him.