"Right," said Banstead. "That is really like the Samaritan Johnnie. I'll
come with pleasure."

"Quarter to eight."

Banstead hesitated. "Couldn't you make it a quarter past?"

Dick stared. "Alter our dinner hour? You've rather a nerve, haven't you,
Banstead?"

"I wouldn't suggest it, if we weren't pals," replied the other, grinning
somewhat shamefacedly. "But the fact is I've got an appointment late
this afternoon." The fatuity of vicious and coroneted youth outstripped
his discretion. "There's a devilish pretty girl, you know, at 'The Green
Man' at Little Barton; I don't know whether I can get away in time."

Dick stuffed his bast in his pocket, and muttered things uncomplimentary
to Banstead.

"Dinner's at a quarter to eight. You can take it or leave it," said he.

"I suppose I've jolly well got to take it," said Banstead, unruffled.
"Anything's better than going through dinner from soup to dessert all
alone under the fishy eye of that butling image of a Jenkins. He was
thirty years in my governor's service, and doesn't understand my ways. I
guess I'll have to chuck him."

A perspiring, straw-hatted postman lurched along the gravel drive with
the morning's post. He touched his hat to Dick, delivered the Manor