Indeed with his quick ways, his shortness, his bushy little grey whiskers and his pepper and salt suit with its flapping pockets, Mr. Simcox was very like one of those funny little jack-in-the-boxes they used to sell. He said to her, regarding her with very apparent pleasure and esteem, “Well, that’s very nice of you. That really is very nice of you. And it’s most wonderful. It is indeed. Do you know, I must have walked more than a mile looking for a letter-box and I daresay I should have walked another mile and then forgotten it and taken the letter home again.” He addressed Aunt Belle: “It’s a most astonishing thing, Mrs. Pyke Pounce, but I cannot post a letter. I positively cannot post a single letter. When I say single, I do not mean I can post no letter at all. No, no. Far from it. I mean I can post no letter singly, by itself, solus. My daily correspondence, my office batch, I take out in a bundle, perhaps in a table basket. That is simple. But a single letter--as you see, a clever young lady like this has to find a box for me or I might carry the thing for days together. Astonishing that, you know. Astonishing, annoying, and mind you, sometimes serious and embarrassing.” “Why, you busy, busy person, you!” cried Aunt Belle with her customary air towards a man of shaking her finger at him. “You very busy person! Fancy a basket full of correspondence! Why what a heap you must have!” Mr. Simcox said he had indeed a heap. “Sometimes I think more than I can manage.” “Indeed,” agreed Aunt Belle, “you don’t seem to have much time to spare. Why, I haven’t seen you in my drawing-room for quite a month (“You busy little creature, you,” expressed without being stated). I expect you’re getting very rich and disagreeable.” (“You rich little rascal, you!”) Mr. Simcox declared that as to that his business wasn’t one to get rich at. “In no sense. Oh, no, in no sense. It keeps me occupied. It gives me an interest. That’s all. No more than that.” As to Mrs. Pyke Pounce’s delightful drawing-room, most certainly he had been there less than a month ago and most certainly he would present himself again on the very next opportunity. To-morrow, was it? He would without fail present himself there tomorrow, “and I hope,” said Mr. Simcox, taking his leave, “I hope I may have the pleasure of seeing my postmistress there again.” He smiled very cordially at Rosalie and went flapping away up the street at the pace and with the air, not of one who had come out to post a letter and had posted it, but of one who had come out to post a letter, had dropped it, and was flying back to look for it. “Oh, isn’t he an ugly little monster!” cried Aunt Belle, resuming the walk. “But I think he’s nice,” said Rosalie. “What is his business, Aunt Belle?”