“I promised, didn’t I?”

“Then good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

They shook hands friendly enough, but rather formally, and Miss Sherwood turned to the house.  Hunt called to Larry: 

“Come here, son.”

Larry crossed to the big painter who was standing beside the power-bulged hood of his low-swung car.

“Happened to drop in where she was—­brought her home—­aunt following in that hearse with its five-foot cushions she always rides in,” Hunt explained.  And then:  “Well, I suppose you’ve got to give me the once-over.  Hurry up, and get it done with.”

Larry obeyed.  Hunt’s wild hair had been smartly barbered, he had on a swagger dust-coat, and beneath it flannels of the smartest cut.  Further, he bore himself as if smart clothes and smart cars had always been items of his equipment.

“Well, young fellow, spill it,” he commanded.  “What do I look like?”

“Like Solomon in all his glory.  No, more like the he-dressmaker of the Queen of Sheba.”

“I’m going to run you up every telephone post we come to for that insult!  Hop in, son, and we’ll take a little voyage around the earth in eighty seconds.”

Larry got in.  Once out of the drive the car leaped away as though intent upon keeping to Hunt’s time-table.  But after a mile or two Hunt quieted the roaring monster to a conversational pace.

“Get one of the invitations to my show?” he asked.

“Yes.  Several days ago.  That dealer certainly got it up in great shape.”

“You must have hypnotized Graham.  That old paint pirate is giving the engine all the gas she’ll stand—­and believe me, he’s sure getting up a lot of speed.”  Hunt grinned.  “That private pre-exhibition show you suggested is proving the best publicity idea Graham ever had in his musty old shop.  Everywhere I go, people are talking about the darned thing.  Every man, woman and child, also unmarried females of both sexes, who got invitations are coming—­and those who didn’t get ’em are trying to bribe the traffic cop at Forty-Second Street to let ’em in.”

Hunt paused for a chuckle.  “And I’m having the time of my young life with the people who always thought I couldn’t paint, and who are now trying to sidle up to me on the suspicion that possibly after all I can paint.  What’s got that bunch buffaloed is the fact that Graham has let it leak out that I’m likely to make bales of money from my painting.  The idea of any one making money out of painting, that’s too much for their heads.  Oh, this is the life, Larry!”

Larry started to congratulate him, but was instantly interrupted with: 

“I admit I’m a painter, and always will admit it.  But this present thing is all your doing.  We’ll try to square things sometime.  But I didn’t ask you to come along to hear verbostical acrobatics about myself.  I asked you to learn if you’d worked out your plan yet regarding Maggie?”