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On
Thursday
,
therefore
,
he
walked
pensively
along
the
slippery
,
shovel-scraped
sidewalks
,
and
came
in
sight
of
Myra
's
house
,
on
the
half-hour
after
five
,
a
lateness
which
he
fancied
his
mother
would
have
favored
.
He
waited
on
the
door-step
with
his
eyes
nonchalantly
half-closed
,
and
planned
his
entrance
with
precision
.
He
would
cross
the
floor
,
not
too
hastily
,
to
Mrs.
St.
Claire
,
and
say
with
exactly
the
correct
modulation
:
"
My
dear
Mrs.
St.
Claire
,
I
'm
frightfully
sorry
to
be
late
,
but
my
maid
"
--
he
paused
there
and
realized
he
would
be
quoting
--
"
but
my
uncle
and
I
had
to
see
a
fella
--
Yes
,
I
've
met
your
enchanting
daughter
at
dancing-school
.
"
Then
he
would
shake
hands
,
using
that
slight
,
half-foreign
bow
,
with
all
the
starchy
little
females
,
and
nod
to
the
fellas
who
would
be
standing
'
round
,
paralyzed
into
rigid
groups
for
mutual
protection
.
A
butler
(
one
of
the
three
in
Minneapolis
)
swung
open
the
door
.
Amory
stepped
inside
and
divested
himself
of
cap
and
coat
.
He
was
mildly
surprised
not
to
hear
the
shrill
squawk
of
conversation
from
the
next
room
,
and
he
decided
it
must
be
quite
formal
.
He
approved
of
that
--
as
he
approved
of
the
butler
.
"
Miss
Myra
,
"
he
said
.
To
his
surprise
the
butler
grinned
horribly
.
"
Oh
,
yeah
,
"
he
declared
,
"
she
's
here
.
"
He
was
unaware
that
his
failure
to
be
cockney
was
ruining
his
standing
.
Amory
considered
him
coldly
.
"
But
,
"
continued
the
butler
,
his
voice
rising
unnecessarily
,
"
she
's
the
only
one
what
is
here
.
The
party
's
gone
.
"
Amory
gasped
in
sudden
horror
.
"
What
?
"
