Here I
looked like a sparrow in a flight of bull-finches.
"Can I see Master Freake?" said I.
"No," said he, with uncompromising promptness.
"Is he at home?"
"No," he retorted.
"This is his house, I think?"
"It is," he assented.
"Then I suppose all these people are coming to see you--and cook," said I
gravely.
The sarcasm might have got through his thick skin perhaps but for the
intervention of another liveried gentleman, who briefly asserted that I
was "off my head," and proposed a muster of forces to throw me out. My own
feeling distinctly was that I was on my head, not off it; but his
suggestion interested me, as I do not take readily to being thrown out of
anything or anywhere. Luckily, a fresh arrival took their attention off me
for a minute or two, and while I was standing aside to admire the lady,
who should come statelily down the grand staircase into the hall but Dot
Gibson. He too was in livery, but of a grave, genteel sort.
"Hello, Dot," said I, accosting him quietly.
It bounced all the gravity out of him. He shook my outstretched hand
vigorously, and then apologized for doing so, saying he was so glad to see
me.
Pages:
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549