Instantly the artist came loping down the stairs and had him by the shoulders.
“I’ve got a caller up above,” he said after the usual greetings and questionings were over.
“Yes? Have you gone in for local society?”
“Not exactly local. It’s Alexander Blair.”
“Hel-lo!” said Kent in surprise. “What brings him?”
“Why, he came down to Hedgerow House to look after certain books and papers, and ran over here to make his amende honorable in form. Chet, I hate being apologized to.”
“Of course. Every one does. Nevertheless, it’s good exercise for Mr. A. Blair, Esquire. Brings into action some muscles of his soul that might otherwise have atrophied from disuse.”
“He’s the grim-jawed, hard-bitted Blair of old. Just the same, he made his apology as handsomely as need be. I’ll bring him down here.”
The fabric magnate descended from the studio and greeted Kent briefly, then turned to his host. “You will excuse me if I ask Mr. Kent to step outside. I have some business with him.”
“Stay here,” said the artist. “I’ll go back to my studio.” Which he did.