"Oh, it ain't mine," said Mr. Klinker modestly. "I heard a fellow get it
off at the shop the other day. He's a pretty smooth fellow, Charles
Gardenia is--a little too smooth for my way of thinking. A fellow that's
always so smilin'--Oh, you Smithy!" he suddenly yelled out the
window--"Smithy! Hey!--Aw, I can beat the face off you!--Awright--eight
sharp at the same place.--Go on, you fat Mohawk you!... But say," he
resumed to the parlor, "y'know that little woman is a stormy petrel for
this house--that's right. Remember the last time she was here--the time
we had the Porterhouse? Conference in the dining-room after supper, and
the next morning out went the trunks of that red-head fellow--from
Baltimore--what's his name?--Milhiser."

"Well, she hasn't got any call to intrude in my affairs," said Mr.
Bylash, still rather miffed. "I'm here to tell you that!"

"Oh, I ain't speakin' of the reg'lars," answered Klinker, "so don't get
nervous. But say, I got kind of a hunch that here is where the little
Doc gets his."

Klinker's hunch was not without foundation; this very question was being
agitated at that moment in the room just over his head. Miss Weyland,
having passed the parlor portières with no thought that her movements
were attracting interest on the other side of them, skipped up the
stairs, rapped on her Aunt Jennie's door, and ran breathlessly into the
room. Her aunt was sitting by the bureau, reading a novel from the
circulating library. Though she had been sitting right here since about
four o'clock, only getting up once to light the gas, she had a casual
air like one who is only killing a moment's time between important
engagements. She looked up at the girl's entrance, and an affectionate
smile lit her well-lined face.