“Which is goin’ to become perm’nent unless I sling out a life rope. What’s the use of lyin’ ’bout it?”
Standish laughed. The pitiful, mirthless laugh of the man who is insulted and dare not resent the affront; who compromises with trampled self-respect by grinning where he should curse.
“Good joke, ain’t it?” agreed Caleb, reading the broken aristocrat like an open page, “So much for my first reason. My second reason for helpin’ you out is because I want to do you a neighborly turn. We are neighbors, ain’t we, Standish?”
“Why of course! Of course!” cried the other wholly puzzled as to the trend of Caleb’s words; yet unfeignedly happy—and therefore eager to be genial—over the solution of his financial tangle. He coughed a pleasant acquiescence.
“But,” went on Caleb, “it just occurs to me I ain’t been as neighborly with you as I’d oughter.”
Absent-mindedly, as he talked, Conover drew forth his check book from a drawer and laid it open before him, fingering its long pink slips.
“No,” he continued, forestalling Standish’s perplexed reply, “I ain’t been so neighborly as I should. You’ve been around here to see me several times, now.—An’ I’ve never once returned any of your visits. It’s about up to me to come to see you. When’ll I come?”
“Why—by all means! By all means!” declared Standish with effusion. “Come and lunch with me, some day,—shall we say, at the Pompton Club? Why not to-day? I shall be delighted. If—”
“I don’t go out to lunch,” objected Conover. “Haven’t time. But I’d be glad to eat dinner with you.”
“Certainly. Why, of course. Any evening you say. The chef we have now at the Pompton Club—”