In order to end the state of uncertainty into which the letter had thrown him, he showed it to Cora. She advised him to accept the invitation. This Mr. Ambrose, as she knew, had helped him very much, and it would be wise, she thought, for Harry to meet these friends of his, who no doubt would be literary men like Mr. Ambrose himself.
Cora having made his mind up for him, the young man determined to do his best to lay his timidity aside. After all, there was nothing of which to be ashamed. He was what he was; and it would be the part of loyalty to a true friend to believe that no harm could come of dining with him.
All the same, the evening of Friday, December 13, was in the nature of a great ordeal for Henry Harper. Why he should have had this feeling about it was more than he could say. But having duly written and posted his acceptance, he knew no peace of mind until that ominous day was through.
The evening itself, when it came, began badly. Cora, whom he left at the door of the Roc at a little after half past seven, told him exactly how to get to Bury Street. He would have plenty of time to walk as he had not to be there until eight. But either he did not follow her instructions as carefully as he ought to have done, or he was in a chaotic state of mind, for things went hopelessly awry. He took several wrong turnings, had twice to be put right by a policeman, began to wish miserably, when it was too late, that he had taken a taxi, and in the end arrived nearly twenty minutes after eight at Edward Ambrose's door.
It was a flustered, guilty, generally discomposed Henry Harper who was admitted by Mr. Ambrose's servant, whom he addressed as "Sir." The host and his two other guests were waiting patiently to begin dinner.
"Here you are," said Edward Ambrose, coming forward to greet the young man almost before he was announced. "I know what has happened, so don't apologize. No good Londoner apologizes for being late, my dear fellow." He then introduced Henry Harper to his two friends, and they went in to dinner.
The young man was so much upset at first by the absence of a dinner jacket, that he felt he must take an early opportunity of apologizing for that also. This he accordingly did with the greatest simplicity, and excused himself on the plea that he had no evening clothes at present, but was intending to get some.
Before Edward Ambrose could make any remark, his servant, of whom Henry Harper was really more in awe than of anyone else—he looked so much more imposing than either his master or his master's guests—was asking whether he would have sherry.
"No, thank you, I'm teetotal," he said to the servant in answer to the invitation. "At least, I'm almost teetotal." For he suddenly remembered that since his marriage he had rather fallen away from grace, yet not to any great extent.
"Have just half a glass," said Ambrose. "I'm rather proud of this sherry, although that's not a wise thing to say." The host laughed his rich note, which in the ear of Henry Harper was even finer than Klondyke's, if such an admission was not sacrilege; and his two friends, to whom the latter part of his remark was addressed, echoed his laugh with notes of their own that were almost equally musical.