“As for the loan,” replied Conover, shrugging his shoulders, and tossing the check book back in the drawer, “I’m not obliged to stave off ruin from a man that thinks I’m not fit to enter his home. That’s all. Good-day.”
He slammed shut the desk drawer, and began to look over some of the opened letters before him.
The old man had risen to his feet, his eyes fixed on the closed drawer like those of a starved dog on a chunk of meat. His mouth-corners twitched and humiliation forced an unwonted moisture into his eyes.
“Mr. Conover,” he began, tentatively.
“Good-day!” retorted Caleb without raising his eyes from the papers he was sorting.
“Mr. Conover!” coughed Standish in despair, “I’ll—I’ll be very glad if you’ll dine with us on Friday night.”
Conover opened the drawer, tossed the check across the table and went on with his work.
“I’ll be there,” he grunted.
CHAPTER IX
A LESSON IN IGNORANCE
Desirée was at the piano. Caleb Conover, whose knowledge of music embraced one Sousa march and “Summer Noon” (with a somewhat hazy idea as to which was which) lounged, sprawling, on a cushion by her feet; listening in ignorant admiration to the snatches of melody. That anyone could coax a tune out of so complex an instrument was to him a mystery to be greeted with silent respect.