"Right this very minute. We've got a few of these puny-souled Eastern millionaires putting on the nose-bag with us to-night, but you won't mind them. We'll just look at 'em and despise 'em. And after dinner, you and I will slip off to my study and have a good chat."
"But won't Mrs. Waddington object to an unexpected guest at the last moment?"
Mr. Waddington expanded his chest, and tapped it spaciously.
"Say, listen—what's your name?—Finch?—Say, listen, Finch, do I look like the sort of man who's bossed by his wife?"
It was precisely the sort of man that George thought he did look like, but this was not the moment to say so.
"It's very kind of you," he said.
"Kind? Say, listen, if I was riding along those illimitable prairies and got storm-bound outside your ranch at East Gilead, you wouldn't worry about whether you were being kind when you asked me in for a bite, would you? You'd say, 'Step right in, pardner! The place is yours.' Very well, then!"
Mr. Waddington produced a latch-key.
"Ferris," said Mr. Waddington in the hall, "tell those galoots down in the kitchen to set another place at table. A pard of mine from the West has happened in for a snack."