She crumpled the bit of paper in her hand and threw the ball in his direction. Its flight ended half-way down the steps.
"Come and get it, if you want it," she said.
"Good day, madam," he said crisply, and turned on his heel.
"How many times must I tell you not to call me— Come back here, Dolly! I want to see you."
But her tall, perplexed daughter-in-law passed out through the door, followed by the erect and lordly Mr. Trotter.
"Good-bye, Tommie," whispered Katie, as he donned his grey fedora.
"Good-bye, Katie," he said, smiling, and held out his hand to her. "You heard what she said. If you should ever think of resigning, I'd suggest you do it in writing and from a long way off." He looked behind the vestibule door and recovered a smart little walking-stick. "Something to lean upon in my misfortune," he explained to Katie.
Young Mrs. Millidew was standing at the top of the steps, evidently waiting for him. Her brow wrinkled as she took him in from head to foot. He was wearing spats. His two-button serge coat looked as though it had been made for him,—and his correctly pressed trousers as well. He stood for a moment, his head erect, his heels a little apart, his stick under his arm, while he drew on,—with no inconsiderable effect—a pair of light tan gloves. And the smile with which he favoured her was certainly not that of a punctilious menial. On the contrary, it was the rather bland,
