"Oh, I know Bennington," exclaimed Howard jovially. "I bought an elephant's tusk at his place in the days when I was somebody." With mock sadness he added, "I'm nobody now—couldn't even buy a collar button."
"Won't you sit down and stay awhile?" said Underwood sarcastically.
"If you don't mind, I'll have a drink first," replied Howard, making his way to the desk and taking up the whiskey decanter.
Underwood did not conceal his annoyance, but his angry glances were entirely lost on his new visitor, who was rapidly getting into a maudlin condition. Addressing Bennington with familiarity, Howard went on:
"Say, do you remember that wonderful set of ivory chessmen my old man bought?"
Bennington smiled and nodded.
"Yes, sir; I do, indeed. Ah, your father is a fine art critic!"
Howard burst into boisterous laughter.
"Art critic!" he exclaimed. "I should say he was. He's a born critic. He can criticise any old thing—every old thing. I don't care what it is, he can criticise it. 'When in doubt—criticise,' is nailed on father's escutcheon." Bowing with mock courtesy to each he raised the glass to his lips and said: "Here's how!"
Bennington laughed good humoredly, and turned to go.