They were discussing the last Yale Promenade—for Charles was a Yale man, having graduated only a year ago. Conrad, who had never gone to college, leaned over with his elbows on his knees, and tried to enter into the conversation, though puffing nervously his cigar. Mr. Harrow was getting out the chess board, for he was an enthusiastic player, and made it a habit to challenge Conrad for an evening bout—usually, we fear, to that gentleman’s annoyance, and always to his disgrace.
“Christy,” said the old man, having set up the chess-men and arranged the chairs, “what do you say to a game of chess?”
The question was asked in this identical manner every evening, and Christy, who had never yet found the method of avoiding such elaborate preparations, invariably answered in the affirmative. This evening he sat down even more reluctantly, since he had no sooner begun to play than Betty delicately suggested to Charles that they go into the parlor to see the family photograph albums.
“That old gentleman looks as if he needed a rest,” said Charles after they were seated side by side.
Betty gasped. “Do you mean Christy?”
“Christy?—Is that what you call him?”
“Christopher Conrad of Wall Street,” said Betty, puckering her lips and making a serious frown. Then she laughed. “The idea of your calling him an old gentleman! Why—why—he’s one of my best friends!”
“Oh.”
“And he’s just the kind of man to make a woman happy, don’t you think, Charlie? Plenty of money—and—a fortunate disposition.”