Forbes had devoted such passionate attention to the proper knotting of that square of silk, that he was hardly ready when the room telephone announced that Mr. Ten Eyck was calling for Mr. Forbes.
But his pains had been so well spent that Ten Eyck, meeting him in the lobby, lifted his hat with mock servility again, and murmured:
"Oh, you millionaire! Will you deign to have a drink with a hick like me?"
Forbes pleasantly requested him not to be a damned fool, but the flattery was irresistible.
They went to the bar-room, where, under the felicitous longitude of Maxfield Parrish's fresco of "King Cole," they fortified themselves with gin rickeys, and set forth for the short walk down Broadway and across to Bustanoby's.
They had been rejected here the night before, but Ten Eyck, at Persis' request, had engaged a table by telephone.
"It's Persis' own party," he explained; "but I have sad news for you: Little Willie isn't invited. He's being punished for being so naughty last night."
"He acted as if he owned Miss Cabot," said Forbes.
"He usually does."
"But he doesn't, does he?—doesn't own her, I mean?" Forbes demanded, with an anxiety that did not escape Ten Eyck, who answered: