He gathered his trunks from the hotel and took them off to his new home. He found that the dinner-table was laid for three.
“Expecting company?” asked Michael, watching Jack Knebworth putting the finishing touches on the table—he had a bachelor’s finicking sense of neatness, which consists of placing everything at equal distance from everything else.
“Yuh! Friend of yours.”
“Of mine?”
Jack nodded.
“I’ve asked young Leamington to come up. And when I see a man of your age turning pink at the mention of a girl’s name, I feel sorry for him. She’s coming partly on business, partly for the pleasure of meeting me in a human atmosphere. She didn’t do so well to-day as I wanted, but I guess we were all a little short of our best.”
She came soon after, and there was something about her that was very sweet and appealing; something that went straight to Michael’s heart and consolidated the position she had taken there.
“I was thinking as I came along,” she said, as Jack Knebworth helped her off with her coat, “how very unreal everything is—I never dreamt I should be your guest to dinner, Mr. Knebworth.”
“And I never dreamt you’d be worthy of such a distinction,” growled Jack. “And in five years’ time you’ll be saying, ‘Why on earth did I make such a fuss about being asked to a skimpy meal by that punk director Knebworth?’ ”
He put his hand on her shoulder and led her into the room, and then for the first time she saw Michael, and that young man had a momentary sense of dismay when he saw her face drop. It was only for a second, and, as if reading his thoughts, she explained her sudden change of mien.