Bassett asked Dan to accompany him and Marian to the Country Club for dinner one evening while Harwood still waited for Mrs. Owen’s summons to Montgomery.  Picking up Marian at Miss Waring’s, they drove out early and indulged in a loitering walk along the towpath of the old canal, not returning to the clubhouse until after seven.  When they had found a table on the veranda, Dan turned his head slightly and saw Thatcher, Allen, and Pettit, the Fraserville editor, lounging in after-dinner ease at a table in a dim corner.

“Why, there’s Mr. Thatcher,” exclaimed Marian.

“And if that isn’t Mr. Pettit!  I didn’t know he ever broke into a place like this.”

They all bowed to the trio.  Thatcher waved his hand.

“Mr. Pettit,” observed Bassett dryly, “is a man of the world and likely to break in anywhere.”

His manner betrayed no surprise; he asked Marian to order dinner, and bowed to a tableful of golfers, where an acquaintance was whispering his name to some guests from out of town.

It was the least bit surprising that the Honorable Isaac Pettit should be dining at the Country Club with Mr. Edward Thatcher, and yet it was possible to read too much seriousness into the situation.  Harwood was immensely interested, but he knew it was Bassett’s way to betray no trepidation at even such a curious conjunction of planets as this.  Dan was in fact relieved that Bassett had found the men together:  Bassett had seen with his own eyes and might make what he pleased of this sudden intimacy.

Marian had scorned the table d’hote dinner, and was choosing, from the “special” offerings, green turtle soup and guinea fowl, as affording a pleasant relief from the austere regimen of Miss Waring’s table.  The roasting of the guinea hen would require thirty minutes the waiter warned them, but Bassett made no objection.  Marian thereupon interjected a postscript of frogs’ legs between soup and roast, and Bassett cheerfully acquiesced.

“You seem to be picking the most musical birds offered,” he remarked amiably.  “I don’t believe I’d eat the rest of the olives if I were you.”

“Why doesn’t Allen Thatcher come over here and speak to us, I’d like to know,” asked Marian.  “You wouldn’t think he’d ever seen us before.”

The three men having dined had, from appearances, been idling at the table for some time.  Pettit was doing most of the talking, regaling his two auditors with tales from his abundant store of anecdotes.  At the end of a story at which Thatcher had guffawed loudly, they rose and crossed the veranda.  Hearing them approaching, Bassett rose promptly, and they shook hands all round.

If there were any embarrassments in the meeting for the older men, it was concealed under the cordiality of their greetings.  Pettit took charge of the situation.