The Watermelon glanced at Bartlett. If he accepted too readily, Bartlett might wonder, yet if he hesitated, if he thought apparently of how important his presence in the city would be in the coming week, even if there were to be a few days of armed neutrality, it might seem even more impossible that he would consent to go.
"Can't you join us, Batchelor?" asked the general. "You've made enough for one while. When you run out of that three million, you can go back. Time enough then."
"Swollen fortunes are a crime nowadays," said Henrietta, smiling her odd, half gay, half tender smile.
"Come ahead, Batchelor," urged Bartlett with friendly good nature, neither too eager, nor too insistent, but his eyes were half shut and the palms of his hands wet as he rubbed them on his handkerchief.
"We will start to-night," said Billy. "It will be beautiful. In the night, driving is perfectly lovely, you know, Mr. Batchelor."
"Better come," advised the general. "We can keep in touch with the telegraph. It's not as if we were going into the wilds of Africa."
"No, indeed," said Bartlett. "I have interests in New York, myself, that I want to keep an eye on."
Billy laid her hand on his arm. "Won't you come?" she teased.
The Watermelon looked down, under the brim of her hat, into the gray-green eyes and smiled.
"Yes," he said simply. "I would like to."