so I would have a chance to say more than two words to you before the
rest get here."

Harry Underwood elbowed his wife away from my side with a playful
push, and held out his hand. His brilliant, black eyes looked down
into mine with the same lazy approving expression that I had resented
when Dicky introduced me to him at the theatre.

I cudgelled my brain in vain for some airy nothing with which to
answer his nonsense. I never have had the gift of repartee. I can talk
well enough about subjects that interest me when I am conversing with
some one whom I know well, but the frothy persiflage, the light banter
that forms the conversation's stock in trade of so many women, is an
alien tongue to me.

"You are just as welcome as Mrs. Underwood is," I said heartily at
last. Fortunately he did not read the precisely honest meaning hidden
in my words.

"Come on, Harry, into my room," urged Dicky, taking him by the arm.
"I've got a special brand cached in there, and had to hide it so mein
frau wouldn't drink it up."

I suppose my face reflected the dismay I felt at this intimation that
the women would begin drinking so early. I feared for the repetition
of the experience of Friday evening. But the laws of conventions and
hospitality bound me. I felt that I could not protest. Mrs. Underwood
apparently had no such scruples. She clutched Dicky by the arm and
swung him around facing her.