ed shyly along the
iron fence for a quarter of a mile before he got up courage to go back,
rush through the towering iron gateway and past the gate-house, into the
sacred estate. He expected to hear a voice--it would be a cockney
servant's voice--demanding, "'Ere you, wot do you want?" But no one
stopped him; no one spoke to him; he was safe among the rhododendrons.
He clumped along as though he had important business, secretly patting
his tie into shape and smoothing his hair. Just let anybody try to stop
him! He knew what he was about! But he really didn't know what he was
about; he hadn't the slightest notion as to whether he would go up and
invite their dear cribbage-companion Mrs. Carter to come and see them or
tack up a "T Room" advertisement on the porch.

He came to a stretch of lawn, with the house and all its three towers
scowling down at him. Behind it were the edges of a group of
out-buildings. He veered around toward these. Outside the garage he saw
the chauffeur, with his livery coat off, polishing a fender. Great!
Perhaps he could persuade the chauffeur to help him. He put on what he
felt to be a New York briskness, furtively touched his tie again, and
skipped up to the chauffeur.

"Fine day!" he said, breezily, starting with the one neutral topic of
conversation in the world.

"What of it?" said the chauffeur, and went on polishing.

"Well, uh, say, I wanted to have a talk with you."

"I guess there's nothing stopping you. G'wan and have your talk. I can't
get away. The old dragon wanted to have a talk with me, too, this
morning. So did the housekeeper. Everybody does." And he polished harder
than ever.

"Ha, ha!" Which indicates Father's laughter, though actually it sounded
more like "Hick, hick!" As carelessly as he could Father observed:
"That's how it goes, all right. I know. When I was in the shoe
business--"

"Waal, waal, you don't say so, Si! Haow's the shoe business in Hyannis,
papa?"

"Hyannis, hell! I've been in business in New York City, New York, for
more than forty years!"

"Oh!"

Father felt that he had made an impression. He stuck his thumbs in his
waistcoat pockets--as he had not done these six gloomy weeks--threw out
his chest, and tried to look like Thirty-fourth and Broadway, with a
dash of Wall Street and a flavor of Fifth Avenue.

The chauffeur sighed, "Well, all I can say is that any guy that's lived
in New York that long and then comes to this God-forsaken neck of la