To an outsider, it might have seemed that the company assembled for dinner was a somewhat curiously assorted one; yet the dinner itself, thanks to the efforts of the dark, observant man who presided at the head of the table, could hardly have been more successful. Tact—always tact—and in little things even more than in great, this was the feature that distinguished Henry Carleton’s discharge of his duties as host. And once well under way, there was little reason, indeed, why the occasion should not have been a success. The meal was one for an epicure, deliciously cooked and faultlessly served, and with a quality and variety in the liquids which accompanied it, sufficient to satisfy even Cummings himself. Fortunate, indeed, it seemed, that Jack Carleton took nothing at all, and that Henry Carleton and Vaughan drank sparingly, for Cummings’ capacity was frankly enormous. Constantly his red face grew redder and redder, and his conversation became every moment more and more monopolistic; yet Henry Carleton, with the courtesy of the host, seemed to pay no heed, and if there was any conflict between the laws of temperance and those of hospitality, the star of the latter seemed to be in the ascendant, for the butler was even more than assiduous in his attentions, and took good care that the bottom of Cummings’ glass was never visible from the beginning of the dinner until the end.
A little late in beginning, it was doubtless due to Cummings’ frank enjoyment of his food and drink, and his innocent delight in recounting at length anecdote after anecdote of which he was invariably the hero, that the dinner came to an end far later than Henry Carleton had anticipated. It was fully half-past eight, indeed, before he had the opportunity to slip out on the piazza, where Satterlee sat patiently waiting, with old Robin dozing peacefully between the shafts. “I’m sorry, Satterlee,” he said, as he handed over the parcel; “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting so long. I’m afraid it’s going to be pretty late before you get back.”
Satterlee gathered up the reins. “Close to midnight, I expect, sir,” he answered cheerfully, “maybe later, if the old fellow doesn’t happen to be feeling very brisk. But what’s the odds? The night’s fine, and there’ll be a moon later on. It’s no difference to me. Good night, sir. I’ll be ready for the eight-two, in the morning,” and he jogged leisurely away down the avenue.
The rest of the party, in the meantime, had joined their host on the piazza. Almost imperceptibly Rose and Vaughan seemed to be again gravitating in the direction of the sheltered corner. Jack Carleton, observing them, smiled to himself; then turned to his host. “If you’ll excuse me, Henry,” he said, “I believe I’ll go up to my room, smoke a pipe and turn in. I’ve been awfully short of sleep since I got back.”
Henry Carleton, the hospitable, with the greatest readiness assented. “Why, of course, Jack, don’t talk of my excusing you. No such ceremony as that out here. Turn in, and sleep the clock around, if you want to. Come on, Cummings. You and I will have a little game of billiards, if that’ll suit you.”
“Suit me?” echoed Cummings expansively, “well, I guess yes. Surest thing you know.” This, he reflected to himself, was certainly going some. This was being treated better than ever before. A bang-up dinner; all the fizz he wanted—that, from Cummings, meant much—and now a game of billiards with the old man. And billiards was his particular long suit. No wonder that he was perfectly happy. Scarcely, it seemed to him, could he wait until the next morning, to see the other fellows in the office, and recount all his good fortune to their well-nigh unbelieving ears. “Surest thing you know,” he repeated again, “just what I’d like to do.”
Left alone, Rose Carleton and Vaughan retreated under the shadow of the vines. For a little while, indeed, with a self-restraint most commendable, their talk was not wholly of themselves. A few words they had to say about Jack; a few, with bated breath, concerning Cummings and his peculiarities; a brief account Vaughan gave of his wholly pleasant and successful interview with Henry Carleton, and then, in spite of themselves, their talk swung around into the path of that endless circle which engrosses so absolutely the attention of those happy persons but newly engaged, and soon, all unconsciously, they had drifted away into the realms of the small but all-sufficing world which can never be inhabited by more than two.
Meanwhile, up-stairs in the billiard room Jim Cummings was enjoying himself always more and more. The table was perfect; the cigar from the box which Henry Carleton had carelessly shoved toward him he had appraised with a critical eye, and instantly classified as a twenty-five-cent straight; at his elbow, on the neat little sideboard, were liqueurs, and Scotch and soda. Only a victory at the game was needed to make for Cummings a perfect world, and that finally was also forthcoming. Not easily, indeed; old Carleton, to his infinite surprise, played a most surprising game, marred only by a tendency to slip up on easy shots after he had made a run of those which almost any amateur in the city might have envied. The first game went to Cummings, the second to his host, the third and rubber at last, after the closest of finishes, to Cummings again. And then, pulling their chairs up to the little table, they sat for perhaps half an hour and talked. Cummings, indeed, seemed to be the leader as far as number of words went; Carleton apparently doing little more than to make a suggestion here, propound a difficulty there, and then finally to allow himself to be assured by Cummings’ lordly manner of overcoming every obstacle in the path. At last they rose; the lights in the billiard room were extinguished, and Carleton left his guest at the door of the bedroom allotted to him. “So I think,” he said, laying a friendly hand on Cummings’ arm, “that, as between two men of the world, we may fairly say that we perfectly understand each other.”
Cummings’ speech was a trifle thick, something scarcely to be wondered at, but his step was steady, and his brain clear. “Perfe’ly,” he responded. “No misund’standing at all. Perfe’ly, I’m sure.”
Henry Carleton looked at him sharply. He was well aware of the quantity of liquor his guest had somehow managed to put away. “And just one thing,” he added, “you won’t forget that it’s got to be done quietly. That’s the important thing. You can’t be too careful. It’s a most delicate mission. That, Jim,” he added in a burst of confidence, “is why I selected you.”