“Well, look here—come to tea tomorrow. I shall have some friends, and Del Torre will play the piano. Come to tea tomorrow, will you?”
“Thank you, I will.”
“And perhaps you'll bring your flute along.”
“Don't you do any such thing, my boy. Make them entertain YOU, for once.—They're always squeezing an entertainment out of somebody—” and Argyle desperately emptied the remains of Algy's wine into his own glass: whilst Algy stood as if listening to something far off, and blinking terribly.
“Anyhow,” he said at length, “you'll come, won't you? And bring the flute if you feel like it.”
“Don't you take that flute, my boy,” persisted Argyle. “Don't think of such a thing. If they want a concert, let them buy their tickets and go to the Teatro Diana. Or to Marchesa del Torre's Saturday morning. She can afford to treat them.” Algy looked at Argyle, and blinked. “Well,” he said. “I hope you'll get home all right, Argyle.”
“Thank you for your courtesy, Algy. Won't you lend me your arm?”
As Algy was small and frail, somewhat shaky, and as Argyle was a finely built, heavy man of fifty or more, the slap was unkind.
“Afraid I can't tonight. Good-night—”
Algy departed, so did little Mee, who had sat with a little delighted disapproval on his tiny, bird-like face, without saying anything. And even the Jew Rosen put away his deaf-machine and began awkwardly to take his leave. His long nose was smiling to itself complacently at all the things Argyle had been saying.