"Now, Miss Ida, the undertaker would do as much as that."
"Our motives might differ just a little," she said, dropping her eyes.
"Well," said the artist, laughing, "if you will prepare the dinner, I'll risk undertaker, ancient woman, and all, rather than spend such another long stupid evening as I did last night. I expected to meet you at the concert garden again."
"That's strange," she said.
"I should say rather that I hoped to meet you and your father there.
Would you have gone if I had asked you?"
"I might."
"I'll set that down as one of the lost opportunities of life."
"Why didn't you listen to the music?"
"Well, I didn't. I thought I'd inflict my stupidity on you for awhile, and came as far as your doorsteps before I remembered that I had not been invited; so you see what a narrow escape you had."
In spite of herself Ida could not help appearing disappointed as she said, a little reproachfully, "Would a friend have waited for a formal invitation?"