It is a peculiarity of the human mind that, with whateverapprehension it may be regarding the distant future, it mustreturn after a while to face the minor troubles of the futurethat is immediate. The prospect of a visit to the dentist thisafternoon causes us to forget for the moment the prospect oftotal ruin next year. Mr. Crocker, therefore, having torturedhimself for about a quarter of an hour with his meditations onthe subject of titles, was jerked back to a more imminentcalamity than the appearance of his name in the BirthdayHonours--the fact that in all probability he would be taken againthis morning to watch the continuation of that infernalcricket-match, and would be compelled to spend the greater partof to-day, as he had spent the greater part of yesterday, boredto the verge of dissolution in the pavilion at Lord's.

　　One gleam of hope alone presented itself. Like baseball, thispastime of cricket was apparently affected by rain, if there hadbeen enough of it. He had an idea that there had been a good dealof rain in the night, but had there been sufficient to cause theteams of Surrey and Kent to postpone the second instalment oftheir serial struggle? He rose from the table and went out intothe hall. It was his purpose to sally out into Grosvenor Squareand examine the turf in its centre with the heel of his shoe, inorder to determine the stickiness or non-stickiness of thewicket. He moved towards the front door, hoping for the best, andjust as he reached it the bell rang.

　　One of the bad habits of which his wife had cured Mr. Crocker inthe course of the years was the habit of going and answeringdoors. He had been brought up in surroundings where every man washis own door-keeper, and it had been among his hardest tasks tolearn the lesson that the perfect gentleman does not open doorsbut waits for the appropriate menial to come along and do it forhim. He had succeeded at length in mastering this great truth,and nowadays seldom offended. But this morning his mind wasclouded by his troubles, and instinct, allaying itself withopportunity, was too much for him. His fingers had been on thehandle when the ring came, so he turned it.

　　At the top of the steps which connect the main entrance ofDrexdale House with the sidewalk three persons were standing. Onewas a tall and formidably handsome woman in the early fortieswhose appearance seemed somehow oddly familiar. The second was asmall, fat, blobby, bulging boy who was chewing something. Thethird, lurking diffidently in the rear, was a little man of aboutMr. Crocker's own age, grey-haired and thin with brown eyes thatgazed meekly through rimless glasses.

　　Nobody could have been less obtrusive than this person, yet it washe who gripped Mr. Crocker's attention and caused that home-sicksufferer's heart to give an almost painful leap. For he wasclothed in one of those roomy suits with square shoulders whichto the seeing eye are as republican as the Stars and Stripes. Hisblunt-toed yellow shoes sang gaily of home. And his hat was notso much a hat as an effusive greeting from Gotham. A long timehad passed since Mr. Crocker had set eyes upon a biped soexhilaratingly American, and rapture held him speechless, as onewho after long exile beholds some landmark of his childhood.