The meal was drawing to its end when the doorbell rang.

"A visitor," said Chrystie, lifting her head like a young stag. Then she
addressed the waiting Chinaman, "Lee, let Fong open the door, I want
more coffee."

Lee went to fetch the coffee and direct Fong. Everybody in the house
always did what Chrystie said.

Aunt Ellen laid her old, full-veined hand on the table and pushed her
chair back.

"Maybe it isn't a visitor," she said, looking tentatively at Lorry--she
hated visitors, for she had to sit up. "Do you expect someone?"

Lorry shook her head. She rarely expected anyone; evening callers were
generally school friends of Chrystie's.

Fong, muttering, was heard to pass from the kitchen.

"I do hope," said Christie, "if it's some horrible bore Fong'll have
sense enough to shut them in the reception room and give us a chance
to escape."

Chrystie, like Aunt Ellen, was fond of going to bed early. She had tried
to instruct Fong in an understanding of this, but Fong, having been
trained in the hospitable ways of the past, could not be deflected into
more modern channels.