"Well!" said Jack. "I was thinking you'd had enough company for to-night."
"She'll be sore if we don't come," said Bobo.
"Well, I don't mind. Put on your things, and I'll telephone for the car to be sent back."
Mrs. Cleaver had a modest little house in the Murray Hill district. When Jack learned more about such things he appreciated her astuteness in thus setting up her banner in the stronghold of yesterday's aristocracy. The great people of day before yesterday still linger north of Washington Square, but they hardly count nowadays. A house on Murray Hill though still gives its owner a cachet of exclusiveness that the grandest mansion uptown may lack.
The modest aspect of Mrs. Cleaver's house was limited to the Park avenue façade. "My little house," she always called it. But once inside one was astonished by the great sweep of salon, hall, music room. Below there was a billiard room; above, a library and a little salon. Strangers wondered where the inmates lived.
Jack and Bobo were not too late, for other cars were still rolling up to the door.
"None sweller than this outfit," Bobo remarked with satisfaction.
They trod a red carpet under a peppermint striped awning.
"Lord! What'll we do when we get inside?" whispered Bobo in a sudden panic.
"Just drift on the current," said Jack. "I expect things will be made easy for us."