"I--I don't understand it at all," says Virgie, rubbin' his eyes dazed.
"She was talking with you, wasn't she, Friend Whity? Was it something
you said about me?"

"Possibly," says Whity, "I may have mentioned your cheese factories;
and I'm not sure but what I didn't invent a family for you. Just as a
joke, of course. You don't mind, I hope?"

And at that I was dead sure someone was goin' to be slapped on the
wrist. But, say, all Virgie does is swallow hard a couple of times;
and then, as the full scheme of the plot seems to sink in, he beams
mushy.

"Mind? Why, my dear boy," says he, "you are my deliverer! I owe you
more than I can ever express. Really, you know, that ridiculous old
person has been the bane of my existence for the last three weeks. She
has fairly haunted me, spoiled all my receptions, and--disturbed me
greatly. Ever since I met her in Rome last winter she has been at it.
Of course I have tried to be nice to her, as I am to everyone
who--er--who might help. But I almost fancy she had the idea that I
would--ah--marry her. Really, I believe she did. Thank you a thousand
times, Whity, for your joke! If she comes back, tell her I have two
wives, a dozen. And have some cigars--oh, fill your pockets, my boy.
And here--the photos showing me in my monk's costume. Be sure to drop
in at my next tea. I'll send you word. Good night, and bless you!"

He didn't push us out. He just held the door open and patted us on the
back as we went through. And the next thing we knew we was down on the
sidewalk.