Jack Dunquerque repaired to the Langham, the day after the call on the Twins, with a face in which cheerful anticipation and anxiety were curiously blended. He was serious with his lips, but he laughed with his eyes. And he spoke with a little hesitation not often observed in him.
"I think your dinner will come off next Wednesday," he said. "And I have been getting together your party for you."
"That is so, Mr. Dunquerque?" asked Gilead Beck, with a solemnity which hardly disguised his pride and joy. "That is so? And those great men, your friends, are actually coming?"
"I have seen them all, personally. And I put the case before each of them. I said, 'Here is an American gentleman most anxious to make your acquaintance; he has no letters of introduction to you, but he is a sincere admirer of your genius; he appreciates you better than any other living man.'"
"Heap it up, Mr. Dunquerque," said the Man of Oil. "Heap it up. Tell them I am Death on appreciation."
"That is in substance what I did tell them. Then I explained that you deputed me, or gave me permission to ask them to dinner. 'The honour,' I said, 'is mutual. On the one hand, my friend, Mr. Gilead P. Beck'—I ventured to say, 'my friend, Mr. Gilead P. Beck'——"
"If you hadn't said that you should have been scalped and gouged. Go on, Mr. Dunquerque; go on, sir."
"'On the one hand, my friend, Mr. Gilead P. Beck'——"
"That is so—that is so."
"'Will feel himself honoured by your company; on the other hand, it will be a genuine source of pleasure for you to know that you are as well known and as thoroughly appreciated on the other side of the water as you are here.' I am not much of a speechmaker, and I assure you that little effort cost me a good deal of thought. However, the end of it is all you care about. Most of the writing swells will come, either on Wednesday next or on any other day you please."