"It's this way," Jean explained. "We invite him to dinner, very expensive and elaborate and described as a simple little home affair. We make him very comfortable and mention the tenements. We go on eating and mentioning gradually. By the time we get to the black coffee he believes he thought up the whole thing; gives us a check—but that doesn't matter so much—is pledged by his own masculine conceit to prescribe an interest in raising funds to every bored patient he has. By the time The Tea comes off, there you are."
"Well! Of all the round-about, feminine methods of procedure, that takes the cake. Just explain to Mrs. Norris that there will be two extra guests. I wouldn't miss it for anything."
"Yes you will. Because you're not asked. Nothing like that. Home atmosphere to a man means himself. We'll tell you about it, but that's as near as he'll get, isn't it, Jean?"
Jean laughed. "I'm afraid it is. We may be able to work Fenninger in on mummy, but she's heard about you and thinks you're a frightfully important person. It would scare her stiff to have you to dinner."
"Give her another name, anything. I've got to be in at the death."
"Besides," Mary interposed, "we'll have it on Sunday—best set for lonely man in city without his family, dismal Sunday, etc."
"Well?" Gregory's eyes met Jean's for a second.
"You couldn't come on Sunday. You—won't be here."
There was an imperceptible pause, and then Gregory said quietly:
"No, in that case, I can't."