Down in the grill-room they talked him over.
"I don't know whether he boozes now, but he used to be tanked quite regularly," said one.
"Yes, and they say he writes best when half-seas over."
"Evidently," said a third, "he doesn't drink unless he wants to; and that's more than most of us can say."
"Pshaw! Sunday's clearing-up day; nobody drinks much on Sunday. I wonder that Warrington didn't marry Challoner himself. He went around with her a lot."
Everybody shrugged. You can shrug away a reputation a deal more safely than you can talk it.
"Oh, Bennington's no ass. She's a woman of brains, anyhow. It's something better than marrying a little fool of a pretty chorus girl. She'll probably make things lively for one iron-monger. If the hair doesn't fly, the money will. He's a good sort of chap, but he wants a snaffle and a curb on his high-stepper."
Then the topic changed to poker and the marvelous hands held the night before.
Warrington finished his correspondence, dined alone, and at seven-thirty started up the street to the Benningtons'. Jove, with the assurance of one who knows he will be welcomed, approached the inviting veranda at a gallop. His master, however, followed with a sense of diffidence. He noted that there was a party of young people on the veranda. He knew the severe and critical eye of youth, and he was a bit afraid of himself. Evidently Miss Patty had no lack of beaux. Miss Patty in person appeared at the top of the steps, and smiled.
"I was half expecting you," she said, offering a slim cool hand.