Presently there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs. The door was
opened.
"Mr. Smith, sir."
The Old Etonian entered as would the guest of the evening who is a few
moments late for dinner. He was cheerful, but slightly deprecating. He
gave the impression of one who, though sure of his welcome, feels that
some slight apology is expected from him. He advanced into the room with
a gentle half-smile which suggested good will to all men.
"It is still raining," he observed. "You wished to see me, sir?"
"Sit down, Smith."
"Thank you, sir."
He dropped into a deep armchair (which both Adair and Mike had avoided
in favor of less luxurious seats) with the confidential cosiness of a
fashionable physician calling on a patient, between whom and himself
time has broken down the barriers of restraint and formality.
Mr. Downing burst out, like a reservoir that has broken its banks.
"Smith."
Psmith turned his gaze politely in the housemaster's direction.
"Smith, you came to me a quarter of an hour ago and told me that it was
you who had painted my dog Sampson."
"Yes, sir."
"It was absolutely untrue?"
"I am afraid so, sir."
"But, Smith .
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