"Fiddle-de-dee! Don't be a fuss! Only men, you know. That's good enough."
But Blair selected another tie, and, while he manipulated it, Shelby fussed around the room. He could say no word in confidence to Blair, for Thorpe was impatiently tailing them to hurry, and shortly the three started off, gay of manner on the surface, whatever they might be thinking about.
They carefully avoided all mention of the Cranes, and also avoided the coming prize competition as a subject of discussion.
This, itself, proved the rift in the lute was still recognized in the souls of Blair and Thorpe at least. The two had enough artistic temperament to feel the inevitable jealousy of each other's designs, and if Blair suspected Thorpe of appropriating his ideas, whether consciously or unintentionally, it would have the effect of making him unusually quiet, even morose, rather than to result in so much as a spoken hint of his thoughts.
Moreover, habit is strong, and the three walked off to keep their engagement with much the same gay laughter and chatter as usual.
Shelby, especially, was purposely talkative and jocular, for he wanted to get the other two in complete good humor before the feast began.
In a general way he succeeded, and though Blair was a bit quiet, Thorpe regained his ordinary temper, and the men met and mingled with their fellows, their attitude properly in the key of the occasion.
It was a merry little dinner, and at last the talk drifted to Mr. Crane's book about Peter. Everybody present had known and loved Peter Boots, and various were the opinions regarding Benjamin Crane's extraordinary work.
"All rubbish," declared one man. "Strange, how sensible men can fall for that stuff! Makes me sick!"
"Oh, come now," another urged, "there must be something in it. Benjamin Crane never made up all that."