"It is probable," he said, "that if--a--such semi-celestial individuals as those described by the poet existed--a--possessed a corporal envelope--a--were endowed with a local habitation and a name--Shakespeare--they would not be subject to conditions which--which tend to the--a--obscuration of beauty; but we will proceed, if you please, Thomas. Hark! was that a knock at the door?" They listened. There was a silence; then, beyond question, came a knock on the outer door; a loud, imperative rap, with a suggestion of rhythm, almost of flourish, in its repetition. "Rat-ta-tat, rat-ta-tat, rat-ta-tat!" Then silence again. "Direxia is in bed," said Tommy Candy. "I'll go." "Wait; wait a moment, Thomas!" said Mr. Homer, nervously. "Do you think--it is near nine o'clock--do you think that courtesy absolutely demands our opening the door?" Tommy looked at him in amazement. "It--it is probably a lady!" said Mr. Homer, piteously. "She is without doubt bringing me--a--food;--a--bodily pabulum;--a--refreshment for the inner man. Thomas, I--I do not feel as if I _could_ receive another dish at present. I have received four--have I not?--assaults--a--I would say, gifts, to-day, all tending to--overtax the digestive powers, even if Direxia's friendly ministrations did not invite--or more properly demand--all the powers of that description which I possess." "Pineapple cream, Miss Wax," replied Tommy Candy, briefly. "That was good; I ate it myself. Lobster salad, Miss Goby; claws round it; might have boiled her own for a garnish; calf's-foot jelly, Widder Ketchum; plum cake, Mis' Pottle. Seth Weaver says that when Doctor Pottle is short of patients, the old lady always bakes a batch of fruit-cake and sends it round. It's sure to fetch somebody; you could ballast a schooner with it, Seth says. Yes, that makes four, sir. But maybe this isn't a woman, Mr. Homer. I don't think it sounds like one, and anyhow, I wouldn't let one in, noways. You'd better let me go, sir." The knock sounded again, still more imperative; and now a voice was heard, a man's voice, thin and high, crying, impatiently: "Within there! house! what ho! within!" Mr. Homer gasped, and loosened his necktie convulsively. "My mind is probably failing," he said. "That voice--is probably a hallucination;--a--an aberration; a--you hear no voice, I should surmise, Thomas?" He gazed eagerly at Tommy, who, really alarmed for his friend's reason, stared at him in return. "Of course I hear it, sir," he said. "He's hollering fit to raise the roof. Riled, I expect; you'd better let me go, Mr. Homer." Mr. Homer relaxed his hold. "Thomas," he said, solemnly, "I think it improbable that you will find any corporal substance at that door: nevertheless, open it, if you will be so good! open it, Thomas!"