"I was rather undecided about it myself,—at least for the present. I am quite comfortable here at Mr. Johnson's."
"It isn't bad here,—and he certainly sets a good table. Say, I guess I owe you a sort of apology, Kenny. I hope you will overlook the way I spoke last night when you said you couldn't go to Jack Trentman's. I guess I was a—well, a little sarcastic, wasn't I?"
There was nothing apologetic in his voice or bearing. On the contrary, he spoke in a lofty, casual manner, quite as if this perfunctory concession to the civilities were a matter of form, and was to be so regarded by Gwynne.
"I make it a rule to overlook, if possible, anything a man may say when he is drinking," said Kenneth, smiling.
Barry's pallid cheeks took on a faint red tinge; his hard eyes seemed suddenly to become even harder than before.
"Meaning, I suppose, that you considered me a trifle tipsy, eh?" he said, the corner of his mouth going up in mirthless simulation of a grin.
"Well, you had taken something aboard, hadn't you?"
"A drink or two, that was all," said the other, shrugging his shoulders. "Anyhow, I have apologized for jeering at you, Gwynne, so I've done all that a sober man should be expected to do," he went on carelessly. "You missed it by not going down there with me last night. I cleaned 'em out."
"You did, eh?"
"A cool two thousand," said the other, with a satisfaction that bordered on exultation. "By the way, changing the subject, I'd like to ask you a question. Has a mother the legal right to disinherit a son in case said son marries contrary to her wishes?"