"'Tisn't him. He wouldn't ring, he'd batter--especially if he's `full,'" rejoined Clytie, whose knowledge of the paternal habits was exhaustive. "One of us'll have to go to the door. Emily's out. Wait; let's make sure first who it is." She passed into a room whose windows afforded a view of the front gate, only to reappear immediately in a state of suppressed excitement, a very unusual thing for her. "`Talk of the devil,'" she quoted. "Why, it's him." "Who? The devil?" said Bob. "No, you ass; Wagram Wagram himself! Now, Delia, you and I'll worry out this tangle. Go in there," pushing her through a door. "And you, Bob, make yourself scarce. You're not to appear, see?" "Why not? Where do I come in?" "Nowhere. We don't want you at all. You'd give away the whole show. Come, git!" Grumbling, Bob "got." He could not afford to run direct contrary to his sisters' wishes when decidedly expressed; he was too much dependent on their good offices in more ways than one. In abolishing him on this occasion Clytie's judgment was sound. The descendants male of the ex-army vet were a great deal less presentable than the descendants female--and this she knew. CHAPTER FIVE. A SURPRISE VISIT. Clytie opened the gate with the little half-startled look of astonishment in her face which she had so quickly yet carefully planned. The countenance of the visitor, on the other hand, was not free from a reciprocating surprise. He had not bargained on this admission at the hands of one of the daughters of the house--and an uncommonly attractive looking one at that. "Er--my name is Wagram," he began, raising his hat. "One of your sisters met with something of an accident on our place a few days back, and I thought it would be a satisfaction to know she was none the worse for it. Is Major Calmour at home?" The semi-puzzled look which had rested on Clytie's face during this speech gave way to a carefully planned light up at its conclusion. "Oh, yes, of course. We heard about that, and your part in it, Mr Wagram. But won't you come in? My father is somewhere at the back, and will be delighted to thank you in person." And having uttered this shocking tarradiddle, she ushered him into the drawing-room. Delia rose as he entered, having spent the intervening period in making superhuman efforts to recover her wonted composure. A volume of effusive thanks on the subject of the bicycle aided her efforts still further. "Oh, Mr Wagram, what a lovely machine it is!" she began. "Why, it's simply perfection. A free wheel, too. I've always longed for a free wheel. No, it's too lovely. When we unpacked it just now, why, I thought I must be dreaming." "Just now," she had said. Wagram looked up astonished, and feeling somewhat uncomfortable, fearing lest his arrival at that inopportune moment should wear an appearance as though he had come to be thanked.