“I like to say them,” retorted Clive, “And I’m not a Miss Nancy. Last week I thrashed a boy two years older than I am.”
“Look out, Conover!” warned Caine, solemnly, “He may pick you for the next victim.”
At the sound of the name, Clive had glanced sharply at Caleb.
“I beg your pardon,” he put in, now, “But you aren’t ‘Brute’ Conover, are you?”
“Clive!” admonished Caine, with what severity he could summon up.
“I b’lieve I’ve been called that a few times,” answered Caleb, in high good humor. “Why?”
“Because,” said Clive, backing toward the door, “from what I read in the newspapers about you,—and from something I once heard Grandpapa say,—I don’t think I care to know you, Mr. Conover. I’m sorry. Goodnight.”
Caleb Conover had not known there were so many kinds of forks in existence. From his oyster plate they stretched away to the left in what seemed an interminable vista. Had Desirée told him to begin with the left-hand fork and work inward, as the courses progressed? Or was it the right-hand fork he was to begin with and work outward? A furtive glance at Letty, on his right, solved the problem.
Then, the same glance sweeping the table, he found he was the only person whose doubled napkin had not disappeared. He pulled it unnoticed down to his knee. A roll fell from its hidden interior and crashed to the floor with a report that sounded to him loud enough to shake the house. But the sound passed unheard, in the ripple of talk. Caleb kicked the offending bit of bread further under the table and sombrely attacked his oysters.