The door opened, and something quite the opposite of an angel presented itself.  It was Bridget; and her red hair was dishevelled, her face flushed to the parboiled tint, and her dress uncommonly damp and frowsy.  A mop which she held in her hand explained everything.

“A circular, if you please,” said Bog, in a quivering voice, poking the folded paper at her.

“A succular, is it?  Miss Peelbody told me not to take any succulars for her.  So ’way wid ye.”  Bridget put her hand on the door, and was about to swing it to.

“It isn’t for Miss Pillbody at all,” said Bog, fearful lest the strange man should see it refused, “but for your own pretty self.”

Bridget smiled, for she was conscious that the compliment was deserved.  She relaxed her hand on the door.  “Fat is it?” said she.

“Hush!” said Bog, in a whisper; “a circular about the rights of servants, issued by the ‘Servants’ Mootual Protecting Society.’” (Bog thought of the name on the spur of the moment.) “Please take it—­quick.”

Bridget snatched the circular out of his hand, and was about to look at it, bottom side up, for she had not yet attained to the mystery of reading, when the musical voice of Miss Pillbody was heard at the back of the entry.  “Bridget—­what is wanted, Bridget?”

“Nothing ma’am, but one of these succular men.  Bad luck to him!  Here, now, take it.”

She made a feint of handing back the circular to Bog, but concealed it, with the other hand, in her capacious bosom.

“Heaven bless ye!” said she, in a low voice, and then slammed the door in his face.

Bog came down the door steps quickly, and saw the strange man make a bow and a gesture of gratitude at him, and then disappear suddenly round the corner.  Bog’s first impulse was to follow him at a distance; but his curiosity to inspect the slender, perfumed letter, overcame it.

When Bog reached the awning in front of McFeeter’s store—­a sort of haven or putting-in place for him—­he pulled out the letter, and was about to read it.  Then it occurred to him that the situation was too much exposed.  The strange man might come back, and see him with the open letter in his hand.  Bog would have enjoyed a personal collision with him on any pretext; but to be caught in the act of reading the letter, would spoil the strategical advantage that Bog now had over him.

Bog moved on down a side street, and took his stand behind a huge wooden column surmounted by a gilded mortar and pestle.  Here he was about to rip open the envelope, but a glance across the street discovered a policeman looking at him.  Bog felt guilty and awkward.  He coughed, and thrust the letter into his pocket, and moved on again.  The exciting events of the morning had made Bog intensely nervous.  He did not stop this time until he had gained his home.

His aunt was sitting in the front room, reading a book through a huge pair of silver-rimmed spectacles.  There was a thick fold of flannel about her neck, and she smelt strongly of embrocation.  As Bog rushed into the room, she groaned audibly, and laid down the book, as if it were a wicked enjoyment.