Her husband entered, smiling.
“Oh,” she said, mildly surprised. “I thought it was Taswell. He sent word to ask if he could see me at four. . . . You are home early. Anything special?”
“No,” said Joe. “I asked Fletcher to come here at four—I didn’t want him to be seen at my office; and he’s late. So I shall let him cool his heels for a few minutes.”
“Something big on hand?”
“For him, not for me. The fool wants to sell me his newspapers, now that I’ve stolen their circulation.”
“Am I to come down-stairs?”
“You can if you want.”
“Mercy! I don’t want to see old Fletcher. I just meant, is he to be entertained?”
“No,” said Joe curtly. “Fletcher’s on the toboggan.”
He consulted a pocket note-book. “By the way, can you save the night of the fourteenth for me? Awful bore, but it would be advisable for us to appear at the reception for Sir Esme Dordress at the Union League.”