“By the way, Doubleday,” said I, in as off-hand a manner as I could assume, after some preliminary talk on different matters—“by the way, could you come up to supper on Thursday? Just the usual lot, you know.”
I could have kicked myself for the way I blushed and stammered as I was delivering this short oration.
Doubleday gazed at me half curiously, half perplexed.
“Eh—supper? Oh, rather! Where’s it to be? Mansion House or Guildhall?”
I didn’t like this. It wasn’t what I had expected.
“Oh, up at my place, you know—Beadle Square,” I said.
At this Doubleday fairly laughed.
“Supper at your place at Black Beadle Square? Oh, rather! I’ll come. You’ll come too, Crow, eh? The young un’s got a supper on on Thursday. Oh, rather. Put me down for that, old man.”
Could anything have been more mortifying? Most invitations are received politely and graciously. What there was to laugh at about mine I couldn’t understand.
“Oh, yes, Crow’s coming,” I said, meekly. “At least I hope so.”