“It must have been this ,” he thought to himself, “that, like a letter at the door, brought the water-rat to my mind!”

Led by a sudden impulse that he made no attempt to explain to himself, he proceeded to walk up this “private lane.” The east wind moaned forlornly through the laurel-bushes on either side of the path. “He’s invaded my privacy often enough,” he thought. “Why shouldn’t I invade his for once?”

“Is Mr. Weevil⁠ ⁠… Mr. Bob Weevil⁠ ⁠… at home?” he enquired of the maid who opened the door. She had friendly blue eyes, this maid, but she looked amused and astonished to see him.