"Then, of course, it is done. You'll be able to yell 'sandwich'! anywhere in New York and nobody will think of anything except that you are the most beautiful girl in the world. Give me another before Frederick brings 'em."
"Brings what?"
"Lamb chops!" answered H. R., who was a humorist of the New York school. "Quick!" And he kissed her twice.
"We'll have tea up-stairs if you're really going to be one of the family," said Mrs. Goodchild, with the dubious smile so familiar on the faces of mothers of New York girls.
"Come, Grace!" said H. R., taking her by the unringed hand. He knew better—by instinct.
It was a very satisfactory day. Such was the compelling force of his self-confidence that before he left the house Mr. and Mrs. Goodchild sincerely hoped he could accomplish the impossible and wipe out the sandwich stain from the old Knickerbocker name of Rutgers.
XXIX
The next morning H. R. called Andrew Barrett into the inner office.
"Shut the door," said he.