“Don’t let them,” I said.  “Of what use is tact to a woman if not for just such occasions?”

My invitation had this characteristic note tacked on the end of it

“Dear Crocker:  Where are you?  Where is the judge?  F. F. C.”

I corralled the judge, and we started off across the fields, in no very mild state of fear of that gentleman’s wife, whose vigilance was seldom relaxed.  And thus we came by a circuitous route to Mohair, the judge occupied by his own guilty thoughts, and I by others not less disturbing.  My client welcomed the judge with that warmth of manner which grappled so many of his friends to his heart, and they disappeared together into the Ethiopian card-room, which was filled with the assegais and exclamation point shields Mr. Cooke had had made at the Sawmill at Beaverton.

I learned from one of the lords-in-waiting loafing about the hall that Mrs. Cooke was out on the golf links, chaperoning some of the Asquith young women whose mothers had not seen fit to ostracize Mohair.  Mr. Cooke’s ten friends were with them.  But this discreet and dignified servant could not reveal the whereabouts of Miss Thorn and of Mr. Allen, both of whom I was decidedly anxious to avoid.  I was much disgusted, therefore, to come upon the Celebrity in the smoking-room, writing rapidly, with, sheets of manuscript piled beside him.  And he was quite good-natured over my intrusion.

“No,” said he, “don’t go.  It’s only a short story I promised for a Christmas number.  They offered me fifteen cents a word and promised to put my name on the cover in red, so I couldn’t very well refuse.  It’s no inspiration, though, I tell you that.”  He rose and pressed a bell behind him and ordered whiskeys and ginger ales, as if he were in a hotel.  “Sit down, Crocker,” he said, waving me to a morocco chair.  “Why don’t you come over to see us oftener?”

“I’ve been quite busy,” I said.

This remark seemed to please him immensely.

“What a sly old chap you are,” said he; “really, I shall have to go back to the inn and watch you.”

“What the deuce do you mean?” I demanded.

He looked me over in well-bred astonishment and replied: 

“Hang me, Crocker, if I can make you out.  You seem to know the world pretty well, and yet when a fellow twits you on a little flirtation you act as though you were going to black his eyes.”

“A little flirtation!” I repeated, aghast.

“Oh, well,” he said, smiling, “we won’t quarrel over a definition.  Call it anything you like.”

“Don’t you think this a little uncalled for?” I asked, beginning to lose my temper.

“Bless you, no.  Not among friends:  not among such friends as we are.”

“I didn’t know we were such devilish good friends,” I retorted warmly.

“Oh, yes, we are, devilish good friends,” he answered with assurance; “known each other from boyhood, and all that.  And I say, old chap,” he added, “you needn’t be jealous of me, you know.  I got out of that long ago.  And I’m after something else now.”