I had not seen him since that June.

And, as far as I am aware, my dear Betty had not seen him either.
Marigold entered.
"Well ?" said I.
"I thought you rang, sir." "You didn't," I said.

"You thought I ought to have rung, But you were mistaken." I have on my mantelpiece a tiny, corroded, wooden Egyptian bust, of so little value that Mr.Hatoun of Cairo (and every visitor to Cairo knows Hatoun) gave it me as Baksheesh; it is, however, a genuine bit from a poor humble devil's tomb of about five thousand years ago.

And it has only one positive eye and no expression.
Marigold was the living replica of it--with his absurd wig.
"In a quarter of an hour," said I, "I shall have rung." "Very good, sir," said Marigold.
But he had disturbed the harmonical progression of my reflections.

They all went anyhow.