"You mean--without him?" P. Sybarite nodded toward the man fuming in
the gateway.

"Yes. If you could suggest something to detain him long enough for me
to get into the cab and say one word to the chauffeur--"

The chest of P. Sybarite swelled.

"Leave it to me," he said with fine simplicity.

"Molly!" cried the man at the gate.

"Don't answer," P. Sybarite advised: "if you don't, he'll lose
patience and come to fetch you. And then--"

"But I'm afraid he may--"

"_Molly!_"

"Don't you fear for me: God's good to the Irish."

"MOLLY!"

"Do be quiet," suggested P. Sybarite, not altogether civilly.

The other started as if slapped.

"What's that?" he barked in a rage.

"I said, hold your tongue."