“Keep on the way you're going, my son,” he said, seizing the boy's hand, a slight tremble in his voice, “and you'll get a dozen of them.”
“How?” The boy's eyes were wide in wonderment.
“By being yourself. Don't let go of your ideals no matter what Minott or anybody else says. Let him go his way and do you keep on in yours. Don't... but I can't talk here. Come and see me. I mean it.”
Breen's eyes glistened. “When?”
“To-morrow night, at my rooms. Here's my card. And you, too, Mr. Minott—glad to see both of you.” Garry has just joined them.
“Thanks awfully,” answered Minott. “I'm very sorry, Mr. Grayson, but I'm booked for a supper at the Magnolia. Lot of the fellows want to whoop up this—” and he held the finger bearing the ring within an inch of Peter's nose. “And they want you, too, Jack.”
“No, please let me have him,” Peter urged. Minott, I could see, he did not want; Breen he was determined to have.
“I would love to come, sir, and it's very kind of you to ask me. There's to be a dance at my uncle's tomorrow night, though I reckon I can be excused. Would you—would you come to see me instead? I want you to see my father's portrait. It's not you, and yet it's like you when you turn your head; and there are some other things. I'd like—” Here the boy stopped.
Peter considered for a moment. Calling at the house of a man he did not know, even to continue the acquaintance of so charming a young fellow as his nephew, was not one of the things punctilious Mr. Grayson—punctilious as to forms of etiquette—was accustomed to do. The young man read his thoughts and added quickly:
“Of course I'll do just as you say, but if you only would come we will be entirely alone and won't see anybody else in the house.”