in an agreeable, non-committal manner; so far it was all that Irving had
discovered he could do.

“That fellow with the angel face is Morrill,” Collingwood went on, “and
the one next to him, with the aristocratic features, is Baldersnaith,
and this red-head here is Dennison,—and that’s Westby.”

Irving, shaking hands round the circle, said, “Oh, I know Westby.”

“Sit down, won’t you, Mr. Upton?” Westby pushed his armchair forward.

“Thank you; don’t let me interrupt the singing.”

“Maybe you’ll join us?”

Irving shook his head. “I wish I could. But please go on.”

Westby squatted again on the window-seat and plucked undecidedly at the
banjo-strings. Then he cleared his throat and launched upon a negro
melody; he sang it with the unctuous abandon of the darkey, and Irving
listened and looked on enviously, admiring the display of talent. Westby
sang another song, and then turned and pushed up the window.

“Awfully hot for this time of year, isn’t it?” he said. “Fine moonlight
night; wouldn’t it be great to go for a swim?”

“Um!” said Morrill, appreciatively.

“Will you let us go, Mr. Upton?” Westby asked the question pleadingly.
“Won’t you please let us go? It’s such a fine warm moonlight night—and