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I began bitterly to regret that I had been obliged to present my cousin to her so abruptly. I wished it had occurred to me to give him a word or two of caution, or that I had had sense enough to adhere to my first plan of letting him feed himself at the little oyster establishment round the corner. But wishes and regrets could not now mend the matter; so I hailed an approaching horse-car, and comforted myself on the rear platform with the reflection that perhaps the colonel would not wave the palmetto leaf too vigorously, if he waved it at all, in the face of Mrs. Wesley.

II

The awkwardness of the situation disturbed me more or less during the forenoon; but fortunately it was a half-holiday, and I was able to leave the office shortly after one o’clock.

I do not know how I came to work myself into such a state of mind on the way up town, but as I stepped from the horse-car and turned into Clinton Place I had a strong apprehension that I should find some unpleasant change in the facial aspect of the little red brick building I occupied- -a scowl, for instance, on the brown-stone eyebrow over the front door. I actually had a feeling of relief when I saw that the facade presented its usual unaggressive appearance.

As I entered the hall, Mrs. Wesley, who had heard my pass-key grating in the lock, was coming down-stairs.

“Is my cousin here, Clara?” I asked, in the act of reaching up to hang my hat on the rack.

“No,” said Mrs. Wesley. There was a tone in that monosyllable that struck me. “But he has been here?”

“He has been here,” replied Mrs. Wesley. “May be you noticed the bell- knob hanging out one or two inches. Is Mr. Flagg in the habit of stretching the bell-wire of the houses he visits, when the door is not opened in a moment? Has he escaped from somewhere?”

“Escaped from somewhere!” I echoed. “I only asked; he behaved so strangely.”

“Good heavens, Clara! what has the man done? I hope that nothing unpleasant has happened. Flagg is my only surviving relative–I may say our only surviving relative–and I should be pained to have any misunderstanding. I want you to like him.”

“There was a slight misunderstanding at first,” said Clara, and a smile flitted across her face, softening the features which had worn an air of unusual seriousness and preoccupation. “But it is all right now, dear. He has eaten everything in the house–that bit of spring lamb I saved expressly for you!–and has gone down town ‘on a raid,’ as he called it, in your second-best suit–the checked tweed. I did all I could for him.”

“My dear, something has ruffled you. What is it?”

“Wesley,” said my wife slowly, and in a perplexed way, “I have had so few relatives that perhaps I don’t know what to do with them, or what to say to them.”

“You always say and do what is just right.”

“I began unfortunately with Mr. Flagg, then. Mary was washing the dishes when he rang, and I went to the door. If he IS our cousin, I must say that he cut a remarkable figure on the doorstep.”

“I can imagine it, my dear, coming upon you so unexpectedly. There were peculiarities in his costume.”

“For an instant,” Clara went on, “I took him for the ashman, though the ashman always goes to the area door, and never comes on Tuesdays; and then, before the creature had a chance to speak, I said, ‘We don’t want any,’ supposing he had something to sell. Instead of going away quietly, as I expected he would do, the man made a motion to come in, and I slammed the door on him.”

“Dear! dear!”

“What else could I do, all alone in the hall? How was I to know that he was one of the family?”