“I thought you said I wouldn’t dare to be sitting on this bench—who’d pass, then? where?”
“I’m never logical,” Pix returned, without pride; “what philanthropist is? D’ye know, Chalmers, I believe some day I’m going to do something extraordinary at philanthropy.”
“It isn’t likely,” Chalmers discouraged. His eyes were fixed absently on the White House across the Park.
“I know it isn’t. That’s why I may do it. In fact I’m almost sure——”
“I wish I could lend hope to the idea, but an unlikely philanthropist—really, Pix! Credulity must have its limits.”
“—— Almost sure I shall do something spectacular at it,” finished Pix, meditative, between puffs. “Perhaps I’ll even do a philanthropic turn for you, Kentie, old boy,” benevolently.
“Wish I thought it,” muttered Kent, over a fresh Pall Mall, “but that would be almost too much to expect, eh? That a philanthropist should help some one who needed it?” He stared still more fixedly at the gleam of white beyond the trees.
And Pix suddenly remembered something he had heard—something about Chalmers’ wife—he forgot just what it was, but—— He screwed uncomfortably on the end of the bench. “Shall we be toddling?” he said finally. “Think we’ve aired our riches quite flagrantly enough, don’t you? Then there’s to dine——”
“Where do you do it?” Chalmers rose, with as much alacrity as could be expected—of a clubman. “Boys’ Boxing Club, Home for Blond Babies, Ladies’ select Slumming Society—or——”
“With you,” interposed Pix, sauntering the more aimlessly for his injury; “being the first time—at your house, that is—I had hoped you might remember it.”