“My dear fellow, I’m delighted!” Chalmers didn’t look it (he had forgotten how, perhaps) but he looked less absent. For a moment he gazed at Pix as though he saw him. “I remember now. Farleigh did say she’d asked you for to-night.”
“Yes—said in the note she’d make it a parti à trois, too. Thought it was no end good of her. A fellow gets so rotten sick of these drove dinners, what? Slum society or high society, it’s all the same. But I say, old boy, I—you’ll think it’s beastly cheek, I suppose, but do you mind telling me why she invited me? I’ve seen her only once, you know, at the de Tregers’ and I’ve known you only at the Club—I—I just wondered what my cue was, y’know,” he dropped his monocle, rather uneasily.
“I’m sure I can’t tell you.” Kent Chalmers gazed straight ahead of him, though he spoke lightly. “Farleigh—my wife—has no set code of move—that I know of,” he added. “Just come and be yourself—that’ll do.”
“Thanks,” replied Pix soberly. Yes, it ought to do; even for Farleigh Chalmers. Pix was, unabbreviated, Charles Clarence Hope de Crecy Pixenthorpe, younger son of Somebody or Other in Middleshire. That he was a younger son is not extraordinary; that he was a rich younger son is almost an epigram. But on the contrary, it’s the truth. He had gone to Africa, and come back that way; and after a girl (who had enough of her own) had added further to his good fortune by saying no to him, he had turned to philanthropy and America. “They go together,” he had said placidly. “One can’t be a philanthropist on a big scale—one can’t be anything abnormal on a big scale, except in America.”
So he had gone. And terminated in Washington. Only four months now since his first donation to the Needy Boys’ guild; yet Farleigh Chalmers was inviting him to dinner. Farleigh Chalmers’ husband wondered what there was important about Pix, besides his being rich. He knew there was something; Farleigh knew any number of rich men in the Capital. Yes, there was something—and he liked Pix; almost, comparatively, as he loved Farleigh. He knew, moreover, that Pix in spite of his trip to Africa, knew nothing about the world—of Washington, Washington, as he wished Farleigh did not know it.
His heel crunched round in the gravel, as they left the Mall. “By the way, Pix, I’ll be late to-night—I’ve to see a man at the Club about something at seven, so—don’t hurry, old boy. Eight o’clock’s plenty of time. Farleigh never minds one’s being late.”
“Right!” Pix clapped his shoulder. “Going to the Club now, eh? Well, au revoir. I’m for the Men’s Friendly—they have sandwich and beer at six. Gad, but a philanthropist does have to feed!—er beg pardon, Kent, really! Sure I’ll enjoy my dinner, you know, but—yes, ’bye, old chap.”
Having agreed to come at eight o’clock, Pix presented himself at Chalmers’ residence, twenty to eight sharp. Strain enough keeping one’s word, as a philanthropist, he reflected inaudibly to the butler who was removing his coat; besides, he wanted to see——“Is Mrs. Chalmers down?” he asked the man.
“Yes, sir, Mrs. Chalmers is down, sir. Marster’s just come in ’arf a minute ago, sir, but Mrs. Chalmers is hin the library. I’ll just hannounce you, sir.”
“Awfully good of you,” as a (now) Brother of Humanity, Pix felt called upon to show fraternity with the butler classes. In fact he followed Binks so affectionately, he almost trod on his own name.