Mr. Deacon descended upon him with an air carried from his supper hour, bland, dispensing.  Well!  Let us have it.  “What did you wish to see me about?”—­with a use of the past tense as connoting something of indirection and hence of delicacy—­a nicety customary, yet unconscious.  Bobby had arrived in his best clothes and with an air of such formality that Mr. Deacon had instinctively suspected him of wanting to join the church, and, to treat the time with due solemnity, had put him in the parlour until he could attend at leisure.

Confronted thus by Di’s father, the speech which Bobby had planned deserted him.

“I thought if you would give me a job,” he said defencelessly.

“So that’s it!” Mr. Deacon, who always awaited but a touch to be either irritable or facetious, inclined now to be facetious.  “Filling teeth?” he would know.  “Marrying folks, then?” Assistant justice or assistant dentist—­which?

Bobby blushed.  No, no, but in that big building of Mr. Deacon’s where his office was, wasn’t there something ...  It faded from him, sounded ridiculous.  Of course there was nothing.  He saw it now.

There was nothing.  Mr. Deacon confirmed him.  But Mr. Deacon had an idea.  Hold on, he said—­hold on.  The grass.  Would Bobby consider taking charge of the grass?  Though Mr. Deacon was of the type which cuts its own grass and glories in its vigour and its energy, yet in the time after that which he called “dental hours” Mr. Deacon wished to work in his garden.  His grass, growing in late April rains, would need attention early next month ... he owned two lots—­“of course property is a burden.”  If Bobby would care to keep the grass down and raked ...  Bobby would care, accepted this business opportunity, figures and all, thanked Mr. Deacon with earnestness.  Bobby’s aversion to Di, it seemed, should not stand in the way of his advancement.

“Then that is checked off,” said Mr. Deacon heartily.

Bobby wavered toward the door, emerged on the porch, and ran almost upon Di returning from her tea-party at Jenny Plow’s.

“Oh, Bobby!  You came to see me?”

She was as fluffy, as curly, as smiling as her picture.  She was carrying pink, gauzy favours and a spear of flowers.  Undeniably in her voice there was pleasure.  Her glance was startled but already complacent.  She paused on the steps, a lovely figure.

But one would say that nothing but the truth dwelt in Bobby.

“Oh, hullo,” said he.  “No.  I came to see your father.”

He marched by her.  His hair stuck up at the back.  His coat was hunched about his shoulders.  His insufficient nose, abundant, loose-lipped mouth and brown eyes were completely expressionless.  He marched by her without a glance.

She flushed with vexation.  Mr. Deacon, as one would expect, laughed loudly, took the situation in his elephantine grasp and pawed at it.

“Mamma!  Mamma!  What do you s’pose?  Di thought she had a beau——­”