“Yes—I—I remember her,” said Helm, as painfully embarrassed as if Miss Eleanor Clearwater, the beautiful, the fashionable, had been there in her own exquisite person. Remember her! Not a day had passed that he had not lived again those hours when chances had thrown him into her company on terms of almost friendly intimacy.
“We want you to come to dinner,” continued Barton, pretending not to notice the simple, uncouth, homely Helm’s woeful confusion. “To-morrow night—very informal—dressed as you are—really a home supper.”
“Sorry, but I can’t,” George blurted out—curt, rude, uncouth.
“Oh—nonsense!” cried young Hollister. “You’ll get along all right.”
“I can’t come, Mr. Hollister,” said George, suddenly recovering his self-possession. Perhaps the fashionable young man’s misunderstanding of his diffidence may have helped. Helm went on with the natural dignity and grace that makes the acquired sort look what it is, “It’s very kind of your father and Judge Powers to ask me. But I can’t.”
“I’m asking you,” weakly blustered Barton. “My father’s got nothing to do with it. As for Judge Powers, I can’t see why you drag him in.”
The calm, honest look of George Helm’s deep-set eyes was not easy to bear, as he explained without a trace of anger:
“I met your sister and her friend on the street the day after the election last fall. They made it plain that they had ceased to know me——”
“But,” interrupted Bart, “that was the day after the election, when everybody was hot in the collar. We’ve all cooled down.”
“I’ve come back here to go into politics again,” said George. “And I’ve got to say and do things that’ll make you and your relatives madder than ever——”