“Must I tip my hat to all of them?” he asked. “If you please. It really seems kinder. You--you needn't quite lift it, as you did to the children just now. If you just touch the brim lightly with your hand in a sort of military salute--that is what they are accustomed to.” After they had passed through the village street she paused at the end of a short lane and looked up at him doubtfully. “Would you--I wonder if you would like to go into a cottage,” she said. “Go into a cottage?” he asked. “What cottage? What for?” He had not the remotest idea of any reason why he should go into a cottage inhabited by people who were entire strangers to him, and Miss Alicia felt a trifle awkward at having to explain anything so wholly natural. “You see, they are your cottages, and the people are your tenants, and--” “But perhaps they mightn't like it. It might make 'em mad,” he argued. “If their water-pipes had busted, and they'd asked me to come and look at them or anything; but they don't know me yet. They might think I was Mr. Buttinski.” “I don't quite--” she began. “Buttinski is a foreign name; it sounds Russian or Polish. I'm afraid I don't quite understand why they should mistake you for him.” Then he laughed--a boyish shout of laughter which brought a cottager to the nearest window to peep over the pots of fuchsias and geraniums blooming profusely against the diamond panes. “Say,” he apologized, “don't be mad because I laughed. I'm laughing at myself as much as at anything. It's a way of saying that they might think I was 'butting in' too much--pushing in where I wasn't asked. See? I said they might think I was Mr. Butt-in-ski! It's just a bit of fool slang. You're not mad, are you?” “Oh, no!” she said. “Dear me! no. It is very funny, of course. I'm afraid I'm extremely ignorant about--about foreign humor” It seemed more delicate to say “foreign” than merely “American.” But her gentle little countenance for a few seconds wore a baffled expression, and she said softly to herself, “Mr. Buttinski, Butt-in--to intrude. It sounds quite Polish; I think even more Polish than Russian.” He was afraid he would yell with glee, but he did not. Herculean effort enabled him to restrain his feelings, and present to her only an ordinary-sized smile. “I shouldn't know one from the other,” he said; “but if you say it sounds more Polish, I bet it does.” “Would you like to go into a cottage?” she inquired. “I think it might be as well. They will like the attention.” “Will they? Of course I'll go if you think that. What shall I say?” he asked somewhat anxiously. “If you think the cottage looks clean, you might tell them so, and ask a few questions about things. And you must be sure to inquire about Susan Hibblethwaite's legs.” “What?” ejaculated Tembarom.