In the afternoon of that same day Sharpe called up.
“What dinner engagement have you for to-night?” he inquired.
“None,” replied Bobby, after a moment of hesitation.
“Then I want you to dine with me at the Spender. Can you make it?”
“I guess so,” replied Bobby reluctantly, after another hesitant pause. “What time, say?”
“About seven. Just inquire at the desk. I’ll have a dining-room reserved.”
Bobby was very thoughtful as he arrayed himself for dinner, and he was still more thoughtful when, a boy ushering him into the cozy little private dining-room, he found the over-dazzling young Mrs. Sharpe with her husband. She greeted the handsome young Mr. Burnit most effusively, clasping his hand warmly and rolling up her large eyes at him while Mr. Sharpe looked on with smiling approval. Bobby experienced that strange conflict which most men have known, a feeling of revulsion at war with the undoubted lure of the women. She was one of those who deliberately make appeal through their femininity alone.
“Such a pleasure to meet you,” she said in the most silvery of voices. “I have heard so much of Mr. Burnit and his polo skill.”
“It’s the best trick I do,” confessed Bobby, laughing.
“That’s because Mr. Burnit hasn’t found his proper forte as yet,” interposed Sharpe. “He was really cut out for the illuminating business.” And he led the way to the table, upon which Bobby had already noted that five places were laid.