“The old gentleman is hell on real estate,” warned Rivington.
“We own the most valuable portions of the Lord's green footstool in fee simple,” said Tommy, reassuringly.
“I tell you again, terra firma is his obsession. And even at that he is from Missouri.”
“That's the kind I like. For what else was my larynx made?”
“I always understood,” said Rivington, gravely, “that there was money in éditions de luxe, and that nice old widow ladies always fell for the young Demosthenes.”
“Lad, it isn't eloquence that I spurt, but a bald narrative of the facts,” said Tommy, glad to convince Rivington that he was strictly business.
But Rivington rose to his feet and said, solemnly:
“Thomas, I hereby invite you to dine with my family to-night at seven-thirty. I do so officially; and kindly take notice that the invitation has been received by you before you have talked sordid business to my revered parent. Do you accept?”
“I do,” said Tommy.
“Very well; I shall spread it on the official minutes of this meeting. I shall tell Marion when she comes in from her ride. That child is a—what would you call her—a centauress or a lady equestrienne?”