“No,” agreed Orde, “that would be fun all right.”
At this moment Amanda appeared at the back door and waved an apron.
“Mr. Jack!” she called. “Come in to dinner.”
Newmark looked puzzled, and, as he arose, glanced surreptitiously at his watch. Orde seemed to take the summons as one to be expected, however. In fact, the strange hour was the usual Sunday custom in the Redding of that day, and had to do with the late-church freedom of Amanda and her like.
“Come in and eat with us,” invited Orde. “We'd be glad to have you.”
But Newmark declined.
“Come up to-morrow night, then, at half-past six, for supper,” Orde urged him. “We can figure on these things a little. I'm in Daly's all day, and hardly have time except evenings.”
To this Newmark assented. Orde walked with him down the deep-shaded driveway with the clipped privet hedge on one side, to the iron gate that swung open when one drove over a projecting lever. There he said good-bye.
A moment later he entered the long dining-room, where Grandpa and Grandma Orde were already seated. An old-fashioned service of smooth silver and ivory-handled steel knives gave distinction to the plain white linen. A tea-pot smothered in a “cosey” stood at Grandma Orde's right. A sirloin roast on a noble platter awaited Grandpa Orde's knife.
Orde dropped into his place with satisfaction.