“All right. But suppose we say next Sunday. Six is the hour.”
“Six? Oh, I can't dine in the middle of the forenoon that way! Make it later!”
“Well, we'll say one P.M., then. I know your dinner hour. We shall expect you.”
“Better not, till I come.” Bartley knew that this was Ricker's way of accepting, and he said nothing, but he answered his next question with easy joviality. “How are you making it with old Witherby?”
“Oh, hand over hand! Witherby and I were formed for each other. By, by!”
“No, hold on! Why don't you come to the club any more?”
“We-e-ll! The club isn't what it used to be,” said Bartley, confidentially.
“Why, of course! It isn't just the thing for a gentleman moving in the select circles of Clover Street, as you do; but why not come, sometimes, in the character of distinguished guest, and encourage your humble friends? I was talking with a lot of the fellows about you the other night.”
“Were they abusing me?”
“They were speaking the truth about you, and I stopped them. I told them that sort of thing wouldn't do. Why, you're getting fat!”