“But how will you manage so that Colonel Witham won’t hear us, as he will be right alongside of us?” George Warren, who was a partner in Henry Burns’s enterprise, had asked.
“Leave that to me,” said Henry Burns.
The evening wore on; the strains of the music sounded merrily along the halls; dancing was in full swing,—everybody seemed to be enjoying the occasion, save Colonel Witham. He had at least conceded to the occasion the courtesy of a black frock coat and an immaculate white tie, but he was plainly ill at ease. He stood in the office, the door of which was open into the parlour, his hands twisting nervously behind his back, while he glanced, with no good humour in his expression, now at the blaze of lights in the parlour, and now at the clock, which, however, even under his impatient gaze, only ticked along in its most provokingly methodical fashion.
The outer door opened and in walked young Joe Warren, recognized by Colonel Witham as one of the plagues of his summer existence.
“Good evening, Colonel Witham,” said young Joe, with studied politeness, and in a tone that ostensibly anticipated an equally cordial response.
“Good evening!” snapped the colonel.
“Good evening, Colonel Witham,” chimed Arthur Warren, close at his brother’s heels.
The colonel responded gruffly.
“Good evening, colonel,” came an equally cordial greeting from Tom and Bob, and from George Warren, smiling at Colonel Witham, as though he had extended them a hearty invitation to be present.
The colonel snorted impatiently, while the colour in his red face deepened. He did not respond to their salutations.