“Oh, yes it is. Don’t you see that it is owing to my having those pictures that you are here to-day? If I hadn’t them, you wouldn’t be here now, would you?”
“Yes, I think I should, if you had sent for me to come.”
The Brown Robin threw her head to one side and eyed the elderly gentleman shrewdly for a while.
“I am afraid you are fibbing, Papa Cary,” she said. “And I am getting afraid of you, too. I fear instead of being a respectable, elderly gentleman, ready to give aid and protection to unprotected females, you are a gay old dog.
“No, I can’t sell that pretty picture for a thousand dollars. It’s too cheap. It cost me too much pains to get it. And then, how do I know but that you will take it to your club, show it around to other gay old dogs, as your last conquest?”
Mr. Cary grinned delightedly over being called a gay old dog, but shook his head and protested with his hands.
“But come,” said the Brown Robin, as a servant entered from the rear. “Come to dinner all by our two selves.”
She led the way, and Mr. Cary followed into a rear room, where a dinner table was laid.
The dinner was a good one, and Mr. Cary evidently enjoyed it, for he ate heartily, getting quite gay over it.
Of wine, however, he was sparing in use, though urged often to drink.