"Well, you'll understand it perhaps when I choose to explain it," said Neergard. "I see there's some trouble somewhere. What is it? What's the matter with Orchil, and that hatchet-faced beagle-pup, Mottly? Is there anything the matter, Jack?"
"Nothing important," said Ruthven with an intonation which troubled Neergard. "Did you come here to—ah—ask anything of me? Very glad to do anything, I'm sure."
"Are you? Well, then, I want a card to the Orchils'."
Ruthven raised his brows slightly; and Neergard waited, then repeated his demand.
Ruthven began to explain, rather languidly, that it was impossible; but—"I want it," insisted the other doggedly.
"I can't be of any service to you in this instance."
"Oh, yes, I think you can. I tell you I want that card. Do you understand plain speech?"
"Ya-as," drawled Ruthven, seating himself a trifle wearily among his cushions, "but yours is so—ah—very plain—quite elemental, you know. You ask for a bid to the Orchils'; I tell you quite seriously I can't secure one for you."
"You'd better think it over," said Neergard menacingly.
"Awfully sorry."