"Well, he seemed to think you were a friend of his—at least he told me so—but of course a man may be mistaken in respect to that," he observed significantly.
"Well, don't you believe a word he says, Major," said I. "I know Wilberforce Jenkins all the way through, and he and truth aren't upon speaking terms. You say he has invited you here to meet him?"
"To take lunch with him," said the major.
"Well of all the pure unmitigated nerve!" said I. "That shows you what sort of fellow Jenkins is. Why, Major, he isn't even a member here! He has a ten-day card from me; but that doesn't entitle him to invite you or anybody else here. You'd better come upstairs and have lunch with me."
"I'll starve first!" said the major.
"Oh, all right," said I. "If you won't, you won't; but I'll bet you five dollars right now that Wilberforce Jenkins doesn't come!"
"I don't bet," said the major. "I gave up gambling after that tour of yours up to Albany and back. It doesn't pay."
I retired to a writing table at one end of the room, and pretended to be busy at letter writing for some ten or fifteen minutes, keeping one sly eye on the major the while. He was visibly chafing. Now and then he would take out his watch, and gaze intently into its telltale face. Then he would rise and inspect the pictures on the walls. When half-past one came and there was no Wilberforce Jenkins in sight his patience was manifestly near its end, and regarding that as the psychological moment I again approached him.
"'He cometh not, she said,'" I quoted in my most plaintive tones. "And what's more, Major, he won't never be here. He never kept a promise or an engagement in his life. Come along—change your mind and take lunch with me."
"I wouldn't lunch with you if—" he began.