"Perfectly," said my father. "I shall dispose of it in my own way. I am
merely waiting for the time."

"Huh!"

Brutus cupped his great hand behind his ear, and nodded violently. My
father stepped toward the hallway, and listened. Above the hissing of the
fire I heard a voice and footsteps. He straightened the lace about his
wrists, and his features lost their strained attention. As he turned
towards Brutus, he seemed younger and more alertly active than I had ever
known him.

"Ah, what a day," he said, "what a day, to be sure. They are coming,
Brutus. Gad, but the years have been long since I have waited for them!
Place the glasses on the table, Brutus. We still must be hospitable."

The knocker on our front door sent a violent summons, but my father did
not seem to hear it. With graceful deliberation he was filling six
glasses from the decanter.

"Keep to the back of the room, my son," he said, "and listen. Who do you
think is coming? But you never can guess. Our neighbors, my son, our
neighbors. First your uncle, and then our neighbors. We are holding a
distinguished salon, are we not?"

But before I could answer or even conjecture why he should receive such a
visit, my father gave a low exclamation, partly of surprise, and partly
of well concealed annoyance, and stepped forward, bowing low.
Mademoiselle, bright-eyed, but very pale, had run into the morning room.