"Excuse me!" said Blake. "No High Society in mine."
"You'll come," confidently rejoined his friend. "You owe it to Miss
Genevieve."
Blake frowned and sat for some moments studying the point. Lord James had him fast.
"Guess you've nailed me for once," he at last admitted. "Rather have a tooth pulled, though."
"I say, now, you got along swimmingly at Ruthby."
"With your father. He wasn't a Chicago society dame."
"Oh, well, you must make allowances for the madam. Miss Dolores explained to me that 'Vievie has only to meet people in order to be received, but mamma has to keep butting in to arrive—that's why she cultivates her grand air.'"
"No sham about Miss Dolores!" approved Blake.
"Right-o! You'll come, I take it. What if the dragon does have rather a frosty stare for you? She said I might bring you to call. Seriously, Tom, you must learn to meet her without showing that her manner flecks you. Best kind of training for society. As I said just now, you owe it to Miss Genevieve."
"Well—long as you put it that way," muttered Blake.