"I've dined with them on shorter notice than that, just to accommodate them. I 'll call up the Skinners right away."
Honey answered the 'phone. Of course they'd be delighted to dine at the Wilkinsons, but every night was filled up to Saturday. A pause. Hold Saturday for them? She should say they would.
There was another pause. Then Honey clapped her hand over the receiver and turned to Skinner.
"Can we take a spin with them this afternoon, Dearie?"
"You bet. We've nothing else to do."
"You fraud," said Honey, when she had hung up the receiver, "you said you had engagements."
"I tried to convey to you," observed Skinner, somewhat loftily, "that we couldn't dine at the Wilkinsons' before Saturday. That covers it, I think."
According to Skinner's plans, the dinner at the Wilkinsons' was to be the big, climactic drive at the fortress of Willard Jackson's stubbornness.
As Skinner had reckoned, Mrs. Curmudgeon W. Jackson nosed out the paragraph in the morning paper, first thing.
"Who is this Mr. Skinner, Willard? Do you know him?"