“Agreed—agreed!” was chorused on every side.
“I suspect from that bit of spontaneous hospitality,” whispered Frobisher to Meek, “that the event is something below doubtful.”
Meek nodded.
“What is Charley saying?” cried Linton, whose quick eye caught the glance interchanged between the two.
“I was telling Meek,” said Frobisher, “that I don't put faith enough in the condition to accept the invitation.”
“Indeed!” said Linton, while he turned to the table and filled his glass, to hide a passing sign of mortification.
“Tom Linton for a man's agent, seems pretty like what old Frederick used to call keeping a goat for a gardener.”
“You are fond of giving the odds, Frobisher,” said Linton, who, for some minutes, continued to take glass after glass of champagne; “now, what's your bet that I don't do the honors here next Christmas-day?”
“I can't say what you mean,” said Frobisher, languidly. “I've seen you do 'the honors' at more than one table where you were the guest.”
“This, I suppose, is meant for a pleasantry, my Lord?” said Linton, while his face became flushed with passion.