"To-morrow's Sunday," Whitaker objected. "But there's no hurry at all."
Drummond's reply was postponed by the office boy, who popped in on the heels of a light knock.
"Mr. Max's outside," he announced.
"O the deuce!" The exclamation seemed to escape Drummond's lips involuntarily. He tightened them angrily, as though regretting the lapse of self-control, and glanced hurriedly askance to see if Whitaker had noticed. "I'm busy," he added, a trace sullenly. "Tell him I've gone out."
"But he's got 'nappointment," the boy protested. "And besides, I told him you was in."
"You needn't fob him off on my account," Whitaker interposed. "We can finish our confab later—Monday—any time. It's time for me to be getting up-town, anyway."
"It isn't that," Drummond explained doggedly. "Only—the man's a bore, and—"
"It isn't Jules Max?" Whitaker demanded excitedly. "Not little Jules Max, who used to stage manage our amateur shows?"
"That's the man," Drummond admitted with plain reluctance.
"Then have him in, by all means. I want to say howdy to him, if nothing more. And then I'll clear out and leave you to his troubles."