"Thanks. I'll come," responded Lord James. He nodded cordially, and turned to call slangily to Blake: "S' long, bo. I'm on my way."
Blake wheeled about from the wall. "What's this? Not going already?"
"Ah, to be sure. Pressing engagement. Must give Wilton time to attire me—those studied effects—last artistic touches, don't y' know," chaffed the Englishman.
But his banter won no responsive smile from his friend. Blake's face darkened.
"You're not going to see her to-day," he muttered.
"How could you think it, Tom?" reproached the younger man, flushing hotly. "I have it! We'll extend the agreement until noon to-morrow. You have that appointment with her father in the morning."
"That's square! Just like you, Jimmy. Course I knew you'd play fair—It's only my grouch. I remember now. Madam G. gave you a bid to dine with her."
Lord James drew out his monocle, replaced it, and smiled. "Er—quite true; but possibly the daughter may be a compensation."
"Sure," assented Blake, a trifle too eagerly, "You're bound to like Miss Dolores. I sized her up for a mighty fine girl. Not at all like her mamma—handsome, lively young lady—just your style, Jimmy."
"Can't see it, old man. Sorry!" replied his lordship. "Good-day.
Good-day, Mr. Griffith."