CHAPTER 8 

Early the next morning, Rufus rang at the cottage gate. 

"Well, Mr. Frenchman, and how do _you_ git along? And how's Amelius?" 

Toff, standing before the gate, answered with the utmost respect, but showed no inclination to let the visitor in. 

"Amelius has his intervals of laziness," Rufus proceeded; "I bet he's in bed!" 

"My young master was up and dressed an hour ago, sir--he has just gone out." 

"That is so, is it? Well, I'll wait till he comes back." He pushed by Toff, and walked into the cottage. "Your foreign ceremonies are clean thrown away on me," he said, as Toff tried to stop him in the hall. "I'm the American savage; and I'm used up with travelling all night. Here's a little order for you: whisky, bitters, lemon, and ice--I'll take a cocktail in the library." 

Toff made a last desperate effort to get between the visitor and the door. "I beg your pardon, sir, a thousand times; I must most respectfully entreat you to wait--" 

Before he could explain himself, Rufus, with the most perfect good humour, pulled the old man out of his way. "What's troubling this venerable creature's mind--" he inquired of himself, "does he think I don't know my way in?" 

He opened the library door--and found himself face to face with Sally. She had risen from her chair, hearing voices outside, and hesitating whether to leave the room or not. They confronted each other, on either side of the table, in silent dismay. For once Rufus was so completely bewildered, that he took refuge in his customary form of greeting before he was aware of it himself. 
What did he drink?
I'll take a cocktail in the library." 
