"I will not go away," said the clear, firm voice, "until you have attended to my hat—hat once, if you please."
Mr. Ropes came grumbling down the stairs. For one moment he gazed at the man in the shop, and then flung his arms round him and wept tears of joy.
"My dear old friend, Cyril Mush!" he exclaimed.
They had been boys together at Eton, and rowed in the Trinity boat together at Cambridge. Fate had separated them.
In less than a minute they were talking over old times together in the little sitting-room over the shop. Cyril Mush was delighted. "You can't charge an old friend anything for just ironing his hat," he said, with his peculiarly winning smile.
Before Mr. Ropes could correct this impression, another voice was heard in the shop below.
"Can you come down for a minute—to oblige a lady?"
Mr. Ropes descended once more. In a minute he returned.
"Awfully sorry, Mush, but I must go. I've got to shave a dead poodle, and the men are coming to stuff it at nine o'clock to-night. It's for a lady—noblesse oblige, you know. I'll finish your hat when I come back."
In a second he was gone. Cyril Mush replaced the lining in his hat, and placed it on his head. He went out into the streets. He was wondering what poodle it was which Mr. Assid Ropes had gone to shave. Could it be the same? No, most certainly not. So of course it was the same.