“Well, that's all right,” said the newcomer. “This gentleman can come, too.”
“We prefer to dine here,” said Davenport, with firmness. “We have our own reasons. I can meet you later.”
“No, you can't, because I've got other business later. But if you're determined to dine here, I can dine here just as well. So come on and dine.”
Davenport looked at the man wearily, and at Larcher apologetically; then introduced the former to the latter by the name of Bagley. Vouchsafing a brief condescending glance and a rough “How are you,” Mr. Bagley led the way into the eating-house, Davenport chagrinned on Larcher's account, and Larcher stricken dumb by the stranger's outrage upon his self-esteem.
Nothing that Mr. Bagley did or said later was calculated to improve the state of Larcher's feelings toward him. When the three had passed from the narrow entrance and through a small barroom to a long, low apartment adorned with old prints and playbills, Mr. Bagley took by conquest from another intending party a table close to a street window. He spread out his arms over as much of the table as they would cover, and evinced in various ways the impulse to grab and possess, which his very manner of walking had already shown. He even talked loud, as if to monopolize the company's hearing capacity.
As soon as dinner had been ordered,—a matter much complicated by Mr. Bagley's calling for things which the house didn't serve, and then wanting to know why it didn't,—he plunged at once into the details of some business with Davenport, to which the ignored Larcher, sulking behind an evening paper, studiously refrained from attending. By the time the chops and potatoes had been brought, the business had been communicated, and Bagley's mind was free to regard other things. He suddenly took notice of Larcher.
“So you're a friend of Dav's, are you?” quoth he, looking with benign patronage from one young man to the other.
“I've known Mr. Davenport a—short while,” said Larcher, with all the iciness of injured conceit.
“Same business?” queried Bagley.
“I beg your pardon,” said Larcher, as if the other had spoken a foreign language.