“Bennie, my boy,” gasped Jeems, at last, “you’ll be the death of me!  O Lord!  O Lord!  You unfortunate infant!  You shall come here and have a drum to pound; yes, you shall.”  He tottered weakly to his feet.  “Come, Bertie, let us go get dressed.”

The two disappeared into the bedroom, leaving de Laney uncomfortably alone with the occupants of the window ledge.

The young fellow walked awkwardly across the room and sat down on a partly empty chair, not because he preferred sitting to standing, but in order to give himself time to recover from his embarrassment.

The sort of chaffing to which he had just been subjected was direct and brutal; it touched all his tender spots—­the very spots wherein he realized the intensest soreness of his deficiencies, and about which, therefore, he was the most sensitive—­yet, somehow, he liked it.  This was because the Leslie boys meant to him everything free and young that he had missed in the precise atmosphere of his own home, and so he admired them and stood in delightful inferiority to them in spite of his wealth and position.  He would have given anything he owned to have felt himself one of their sort; but, failing that, the next best thing was to possess their intimacy.  Of this intimacy chaffing was a gauge.  Bennington Clarence de Laney always glowed at heart when they rubbed his fur the wrong way, for it showed that they felt they knew him well enough to do so.  And in this there was something just a little pathetic.

Bennington held to the society standpoint with men, so he thought he must keep up a conversation.  He did so.  It was laboured.  Bennington thought of things to say about Art, the Theatre, and Books.  Hench and Beck looked at each other from time to time.

Finally the door opened, and, to the relief of all, two sweatered and white-ducked individuals appeared.

“And now, Jeems, we’ll smoke the pipe of peace,” suggested Bert, diving for the mantel and the pipe rack.

“Correct, my boy,” responded Jeems, doing likewise.  They lit up, and turned with simultaneous interest to their latest caller.

“And how is the proud plutocrat?” inquired Bert; “and how did he contrive to get leave to visit us rude and vulgar persons?”

The Leslies had called at the de Laneys’, and, as Bert said, had dined there once.  They recognised their status, and rejoiced therein.

“He is calling on the minister,” explained Jeems for him.  “Bennington, my son, you’ll get caught at that some day, as sure as shooting.  If your mamma ever found out that, instead of talking society-religion to old Garnett, you were revelling in this awful dissipation, you’d have to go abroad again.”

“What did you call him?” inquired Bert.

“Call who?”

“Him—­Bennie—­what was that full name?”

“Bennington.”

“Great Scott! and here I’ve been thinking all the time he was plain Benjamin!  Tell us about it, my boy.  What is it?  It sounds like a battle of the Revolution. Is it a battle of the Revolution?  Just to think that all this time we have been entertaining unawares a real live battle!”