At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring. "Thank Heaven!" she gasped. "She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink this keeneyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate. Through an open door was a glimpse of the bathroom—a vision of luxury, out of which Annabel herself, in a wonderful dressing-gown and followed by a maid presently appeared. So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. If he succeeds there, I do not know how I can prove myself.
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