A loud and husky voice ascended to the window: “On his way!” And Lucius marked the form and suspender of Mortimer upon the sidewalk below; whereupon Mortimer, seeing that Lucius observed him, clapped hand to mouth, and simulated a jocular writhing in mockery of P. Borodino. “Hay, Bore!” he bellowed. “Floyd Kilbert’s wife’s got a sewin’-machine she wants you to move fer her in that empty seat you’ll have in your phaeton when you git back here to the Square in a few minutes!” Mr. Thompson waved his whip condescendingly, attempting no other retort; and turned into the maple shade of Pawpaw Street. Five minutes later, “General,” the elderly white horse, was nosing the unyielding hand of the cast-iron darky boy, and the prophecy made by Mr. Allen on the preceding morning was fulfilled. A neat young woman, descendant of vikings, but tamed in all except accent, showed Mr. Thompson into an Eighteen-Eighty parlour; went away, returned, and addressed him as “yentleman.” Mrs. Ricketts would be glad to see him, she reported, adding: “Yust wait some minute.” The visitor waited some minutes, then examined his reflection in the glass over the Eastlake mantel; and a slight rustling in the hall, near the doorway, failed to attract his attention, for he was engaged in a fundamental rearrangement of his tie. “Wookin’ at himseff in the wookin’-gwass!” This unfavourable comment caused him to tuck his tie back into the neck of his white waistcoat in haste, and to face the doorway somewhat confusedly. Two pretty little children stood there, starchy and fresh, and lustrously clean, dressed in white: a boy about seven and a girl about five—and both had their mother’s blue eyes and amber hair. “He’s dressin’ himself,” said the boy. “Wookin’ at himseff in the wookin’-gwass!” the little girl repeated, and, pointing a curling forefinger, she asked: “Who? Who that man?” “Well, tots,” the visitor said, rather uncomfortably, but with proper graciousness, “who are _you_? What’s your name, little girl?” “Maud,” the little girl replied, without any shyness. “What’s yours, little man?” “Bill,” said the boy. “Bill Ricketts. You got somep’m stickin’ out of your vest at the top.” Mr. Thompson incautiously followed an impulse to turn again to the mirror, whereupon the child, Maud, instantly shouted: “Wookin’ at himseff in the wookin’-gwass!” Her voice was so loud, and the information it imparted so discomfiting, that the visitor felt himself breaking out suddenly into a light perspiration. Foolishly, he attempted to defend himself against the accusation. “Why, no, I wasn’t, little Maudie,” he said, with an uneasy laugh. To his horror, she responded by shouting at an even higher pitch than before: “_Wookin’ at himseff in the wookin’-gwass!_”