"Yes; he's all right," said Jessie confidently. "He's been here before,
but he stayed in the hall; he was so shy. I don't think you saw him."

"I should think not--Whiskey Dick!"

"Oh, you can call him Mr. Hall, if you like," said Jessie, laughing.
"His real name is Dick Hall. If you want to be funny, you can say Alky
Hall, as the others do."

Christie's only reply to this levity was a look of superior resignation
as she crossed the hall and entered the parlor.

Then ensued one of those surprising, mystifying, and utterly
inexplicable changes that leave the masculine being so helpless in the
hands of his feminine master. Before Christie opened the door her face
underwent a rapid transformation: the gentle glow of a refined woman's
welcome suddenly beamed in her interested eyes; the impulsive courtesy
of an expectant hostess eagerly seizing a long-looked-for opportunity
broke in a smile upon her lips as she swept across the room, and stopped
with her two white outstretched hands before Whiskey Dick.

It needed only the extravagant contrast presented by that gentleman to
complete the tableau. Attired in a suit of shining black alpaca, the
visitor had evidently prepared himself with some care for a possible
interview. He was seated by the French window opening upon the veranda,
as if to secure a retreat in case of an emergency. Scrupulously washed
and shaven, some of the soap appeared to have lingered in his eyes and
inflamed the lids, even while it lent a sleek and shining lustre, not
unlike his coat, to his smooth black hair. Nevertheless, leaning back