Mr. Diggs became human at once. He laid aside his austerity, and was no longer a butler but a good-looking chap of thirty-five who had the "very Old Nick" in him. It was the sort of kiss that has nothing in common with mistletoe--the sort that DOES lead to future complications. It proved something to Melissa, and she uttered a little sigh of happiness. Mr. Diggs kissed her because he was in love with her. Unfortunately, Mr. Bingle entered the room at the very instant of least resistance, and coughed. "Oh, I--I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle, genuinely distressed. It is worthy of note that it was the good little man who apologised, not Diggs. As the master was accompanied by the tall young newspaper chap, who grinned abominably, both Diggs and Melissa forgot their moment of bliss and fell from a great height. Needless to say, they were speechless. "It's quite all right, Diggs," said Mr. Bingle, affecting a vast geniality. "What's a mistletoe for if not to--yes, yes, Melissa, it's quite all right. Ahem! Don't you agree with me, Mr. Flanders?" "Thoroughly," said Mr. Flanders with conviction. "And what's more, Mr. Bingle, I agree with Diggs." Melissa, crimson to her throat, fled. Mr. Diggs passed his hand over his brow, as if to clear his brain, and then stammered in a voice that strove hard to regain its former impressiveness: "Yes, sir, it--it is all right, sir. Quite all right, sir. As right as can be, sir." "Right as rain," proclaimed Mr. Bingle, resorting to a habit of imitation that had marked his progress during the past few years of observation. He had heard the imposing Diggs say it, many times over. It was quite the proper thing to say, of course--apparently on any and all occasions--but, for the life of him, Mr. Bingle couldn't grasp the significance of the simile. "And now, Diggs, THAT being settled, is everything else all right?" He surveyed the great, gaily bedecked room with an eye that took in the smallest detail. "I think so, sir," said Diggs, slowly recovering. "You will hobserve, sir, that I have added the necessary new chair--the 'igh-chair over here, sir, for little Miss Him--Imogene." "I see. We make it a point, Mr. Flanders, to get a new baby at least once a year. The first year, as I explained, we had three. Two or three years ago, one came in May and another in September." "Mental arithmetic gives you twelve in all," said young Mr. Flanders. "Eleven. We lost one in 1906. Little Harriet." "Eleanor, sir, begging your pardon," corrected Diggs. "Right. Thank you, Diggs. Malnutrition. We never should have had her. There goes the door-bell, Tell Mrs. Bingle that Mr. and Mrs. Force have arrived, and give Mr. Force a drink before she comes down." "Very good, sir." Diggs retired with gravity. "President of our bank, you know. Mr. Sydney Force," explained Mr. Bingle. "I know. The husband of Mrs. Sydney Force," said Flanders, a twinkle in his grey eyes.