“And you,” he demanded, whirling upon Hood, “what have you to say, sir?”
“The great master himself would have envied your touch,” Hood replied.
The old gentleman glared. “Rot!” he ejaculated; and then, turning to the mistress of the house, he asked: “Do these ruffians dine with us?”
“They seem about to do us that honor. My father, Mr. Hood, and—Mr. Tuck. Shall we go out to dinner?”
The gentleman she had introduced as her father glared again—a separate glare for each—and, advancing with a ridiculous strut, gave the lady his arm.
In the hall Hood intercepted Deering in the act of effecting egress by way of the front door. His fingers dug deeply into his nervous companion’s arm as he dragged him along, talking in his characteristic vein:
“My dear Tuck, it’s a pleasure to find ourselves at last in a home whose appointments speak for breeding and taste. The portrait on our right bears all the marks of a genuine Copley. Madam, may I inquire whether I correctly attribute that portrait to our great American master?”
“You are quite right,” she answered over her shoulder. “The subject of the portrait is my great-great-grandfather.”
“My dear Tuck!” cried Hood jubilantly, still clutching Deering’s arm, “fate has again been kind to us; we are among folk of quality, as I had already guessed.”
The dining-room was in dark oak; the glow from concealed burners shed a soft light upon a round table.