Quarren rinsed his hands and, still wearing overalls and painter's blouse, mounted the basement stairs and opened the front door. And Mrs. Sprowl supported by a footman waddled in, panting. "Tell your master I want to see him," she said--"I don't mean that fool of an Englishman; I mean Mr. Quar--Good Lord! Ricky, is that _you_? Here, get me a chair--those front steps nearly killed me. Long ago I swore I'd never enter a house which was not basement-built and had an elevator!... Hand me one of those fans. And if there's any water in the house not swarming with typhoid germs, get me a glass of it." He brought her a tumbler of spring water; she panted and gulped and fanned and panted, her little green eyes roaming around her. Presently she dismissed the footman, and turned her heavily flushed face on Quarren. The rolls of fat crowded the lace on her neck, perspiration glistened under her sparklike eyes. "How are you?" she inquired. He said, smilingly, that he was well. "You don't look it. You look gaunt.... Well, I never thought you'd come to this--that you had it in you to do anything useful." "I believe I've heard you say so now and then," he said with perfect good-humour. "Why not? Why should I have thought that your talents amounted to more than ornaments?" "No reason to suppose so," he admitted, amused. "Not the slightest. Talent usually damns people to an effortless existence. And yours was a pleasant one, too. You had a good time, didn't you?" "Oh, very." "There was nothing to do except to come in, kiss the girls all around, and make faces to amuse them, was there?" "Not much more," he admitted, laughing. Mrs. Sprowl's little green eyes travelled all over the walls. "Umph," she snorted, "I suppose these are some of Dankmere's heirlooms. I never fancied that little bounder----" "Wait!" "What!" "Wait a moment. I like Dankmere, and he isn't a bounder----" "He _is_ one!" "Keep that opinion to yourself," he said bluntly. The old lady's eyes blazed. "I'm damned if I do!" she retorted--"I'll say what----" "Not here! You mustn't be uncivil here. You know well enough how to behave when necessary; and if you don't do it I'll call your carriage." For fully five minutes Mrs. Sprowl sat there attempting to digest what he had said. The process was awful to behold, but she accomplished it at last with a violent effort. "Ricky," she said, "I didn't come here to quarrel with you over an Englishman who--of whom I--have my personal opinion." He laughed, leaned over and deliberately patted her fat wrist; and she glared at him somewhat as a tigress inspects a favourite but overgrown and presuming cub. "I don't know why you came," he said, "but it was nice of you anyway and I am glad to see you." "If that's true," she said, "you're one of mighty few. The joy which people feel in my presence is usually exhibited when I'm safely out of their houses, or they are out of mine."