“I know you didn’t, and I don’t like him either, which is mean of me, for he’s a very old friend.”
“But if we neither of us like him, why should we inflict him on our lives?”
“We won’t; we’ll cut him as soon as he has five hundred a year; but it wouldn’t be fair to do so just now when he’s down on his luck; he and I have been friends too long for that.”
“But not very great friends?”
“Perhaps not; but we won’t throw him over in bad weather—try and be a little nice to him to please me, there’s a dear Floggie,” which instantly carried the day. “You had better ask Ethel Dunlop; Fisher is fond of music, and she will amuse him when he is tired of flirting with you,” Walter suggested.
“He’ll never tire of that,” she laughed, “but I’ll invite her if you like. She can sing while you talk to Mr. Wimple and your editor discusses European politics with me.”
“He’ll probably discuss politics outside Europe, if he discusses any,” her husband answered; “things look very queer in the East.”
“They always do,” she said wisely; “but I believe it’s all nonsense, and only our idea because we live so far off.”
“You had better tell Fisher to send me out to see.”
“Us, you mean.”