"That wasn't my fault: Mrs. Maynard made her promise to be home at twelve. You old cackler, that's what sticks in your crop yet. You are persecuting me because they like me so much better than they do you," he went on, laughingly now. "Come, now, Sloat, confess, it is all because you're jealous. You couldn't have that picture, and I could."
Chester fairly started. He had urgent need to see this young gallant,—he was staying for that purpose,—but should he listen to further talk like this? Too late to move, for Sloat's answer came like a shot:
"I bet you you never could!"
"But didn't I tell you I had?—a week ago?"
"Ay, but I didn't believe it. You couldn't show it!"
"Pshaw, man! Look here. Stop, though! Remember, on your honor, you never tell."
"On my honor, of course."
"Well, there!"
A drawer was opened. Chester heard a gulp of dismay, of genuine astonishment and conviction mixed, as Sloat muttered some half-articulate words and then came into the front room. Jerrold followed, caught sight of Chester, and stopped short, with sudden and angry change of color.
"I did not know you were here," he said.