Do you understand--?"
"You mean--without him?" P. Sybarite nodded toward the man fuming in
the gateway.
"Yes. If you could suggest something to detain him long enough for me
to get into the cab and say one word to the chauffeur--"
The chest of P. Sybarite swelled.
"Leave it to me," he said with fine simplicity.
"Molly!" cried the man at the gate.
"Don't answer," P. Sybarite advised: "if you don't, he'll lose
patience and come to fetch you. And then--"
"But I'm afraid he may--"
"_Molly!_"
"Don't you fear for me: God's good to the Irish."
"MOLLY!"
"Do be quiet," suggested P. Sybarite, not altogether civilly.
The other started as if slapped.
"What's that?" he barked in a rage.
"I said, hold your tongue."
"The devil you did!" With a snort the man strode in to the stoop. "Do
you know who you're talking to?" he demanded wrathfully, towering over
P. Sybarite, momentarily forgetful of the girl.
Stepping aside, as if in alarm, she moved behind the fellow, and
darted through the gate.
"I don't," P. Sybarite admitted amiably; "but your nose annoys me."
He fixed that feature with an irritating glare.
"You impudent puppy!" stormed the other. "Who are you?"
"Who--me?" echoed P. Sybarite in surprise. (The girl was now
instructing the chauffeur.) "Why," he drawled, "I'm the guy that put
the point in disappointment. Sure you've heard of _me_?"
At the curb, the door of the taxicab closed with a slam.
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