Melissa, crimson to her throat, fled. Mr. Diggs passed his hand over
his brow, as if to clear his brain, and then stammered in a voice that
strove hard to regain its former impressiveness:

"Yes, sir, it--it is all right, sir. Quite all right, sir. As right as
can be, sir."

"Right as rain," proclaimed Mr. Bingle, resorting to a habit of
imitation that had marked his progress during the past few years of
observation. He had heard the imposing Diggs say it, many times over.
It was quite the proper thing to say, of course--apparently on any and
all occasions--but, for the life of him, Mr. Bingle couldn't grasp the
significance of the simile. "And now, Diggs, THAT being settled, is
everything else all right?" He surveyed the great, gaily bedecked room
with an eye that took in the smallest detail.

"I think so, sir," said Diggs, slowly recovering. "You will hobserve,
sir, that I have added the necessary new chair--the 'igh-chair over
here, sir, for little Miss Him--Imogene."

"I see. We make it a point, Mr. Flanders, to get a new baby at least
once a year. The first year, as I explained, we had three. Two or
three years ago, one came in May and another in September."

"Mental arithmetic gives you twelve in all," said young Mr. Flanders.

"Eleven. We lost one in 1906. Little Harriet."

"Eleanor, sir, begging your pardon," corrected Diggs.