"For the third and last time—no!" Sir William responded, flipping her ear; "this ice is cold enough: it has clotted every vein in my bally forehead. I say, kitten, isn't that somebody knocking?"
The knock which sounded on the door—that of the small sitting-room of Sir William's bedroom suite—was clumsily-knuckled and hesitating. It sounded once, audibly—then a second time, feebly—and, after the second knock, the scuffle of a heavy foot receding indicated that the knocker was going away without entering. Daisy went quickly and opened the door.
"Come on, Dad," she said.
Nixon stopped in the hall, his back half-turned, and spoke to his foster-daughter over-shoulder.
"You go on about your business a while," he said, gruffly, "I want to talk to the boss."
Ware, hearing this dialogue from his chair, smiled queerly to himself.
"Right-O," he called, "run along, my dear, for a jiffy; see if Mother has any messages for us. Come on, Nixon, old chap!"
Reddening in an odd way at the cordial tone, John Nixon, his hands hanging awkwardly and his beard canted aside in a sheepish attitude, came in, pushing the door shut behind him. He lowered himself into the nearest chair.
"How are you?" said Sir William, humorously and companionably, "I say—that was a jolly cataclysm! Lucky to get off with our lives, what?" Nixon, sheepish but still characteristically blunt, came straight to his point.
"I wouldn't have got off with no life," he said, "if you hadn't slung me out o' the way and got stepped on yourself."