Harrison, getting in from the opposite side of car, bumped down, bulging like a balloon in his ostentation. As the automobile slid into motion, Sir Thomas glanced from side to side, watching closely among pedestrians and passing cars for prominent citizens, especially members of Sir William's club. When such an one, in response to Harrison's deliberate hail or a sharp, shrewd "toot" of the contractor's horn, glanced around, Sir Thomas would bring his arm up in a flourishing salute. If the citizen were sufficiently notable and the street-din permitted, there would be a brief volley of social inanities from Harrison, engaging the notable citizen long enough to let the latter see Ware.
"A-ow, Mr. Archbishop," the contractor, for instance, would megaphone, through his curved palm, "what's th' good word?"
And Archbishop Markham, a man of long social experience, would roar back humorously, though with no more than a passing glance, "A-ow! A-ow!"
Sir William, sitting back with his cane between his knees, was too deep in amused contemplation to note the capital that was being made of his presence in Harrison's vigorously-snorting, frequently-tooting car as it progressed down Main Street. The contractor's guest was, in fact, engaged in practising the pronunciation of a certain word he had, after entering the auto, jotted down phonetically in a little leather-covered note-book. When he would get it right, or as nearly right as possible, Sir William would chuckle and slap his leg in immense enjoyment. The word was "Bohunk."
CHAPTER VII. A Human Horticulturist.
"Here is Sir Thomas," said Lady Harrison, rising a little nervously from the chair by Daisy's in the dining-room, as she saw through the window, the long black car glide up the drive; "now, I think you'll do very well, dearie. Just follow Jean's instructions when you're bringing the things into the dining-room. You'll have to wait on the table to-night, you see, since Alice has left us."
"Dinna fash yersel, lassie," said Jean, as she filled the soup-tureen—watching Daisy with some amusement as the latter, anxious to please her mistress—the first disinterestedly kind person she had met in this bumping, jostling, crowding, yet delightful city of her great adventure—kept tiptoeing over to the swinging door, pushing it cautiously a bit open, and peering through into the dining-room; "ye needna keek through the crack o' the door. I can tell by the voices when they're set doon. There—listen!"
Voices that had been mixed and muffled in the distant drawing-room swelled into sudden distinctness, as a door opened. The creak of boots dried by the sun of the street was smothered in soft carpeting as the tide of footfalls flowed about the island table in the big dining-room. A chair squeaked with the weight of a heavy figure sitting down. The feet shuffled to silence. A silk kerchief whistled out of a pocket, and a nose blew like the six o'clock siren of a flour-mill.