"WAVED HIS STICK FRATERNALLY."
Easy-going man as he was, he might put up with the visitation of Manasseh. But then he had a wife, and, what was worse, a livery servant. How could he expect a livery servant to tolerate such a guest? He might fly from the town on Friday evening, but that would necessitate troublesome explanations. And Manasseh would come again the next Friday. That was certain. Manasseh would be like grim death—his coming, though it might be postponed, was inevitable. Oh, it was too terrible. At all costs he must revoke the invitation(?). Placed between Scylla and Charybdis, between Manasseh and his manservant, he felt he could sooner face the former.
"Da Costa!" he called in agony. "Da Costa!"
The Schnorrer turned, and then Grobstock found he was mistaken in imagining he preferred to face da Costa.
"You called me?" enquired the beggar.
"Ye—e—s," faltered the East India Director, and stood paralysed.
"What can I do for you?" said Manasseh graciously.
"Would you mind—very much—if I—if I asked you—"
"Not to come," was in his throat, but stuck there.
"If you asked me—" said Manasseh encouragingly.