“Good night,” said Halleck. “You seem to think my room is better than my company, good as I am.” “Yes,” she said, laughing in that breathless way which means weeping next, with women. Her eyes glistened. “Well,” said Halleck, limping out of the room, “you're quite good-looking with your hair down, Olive.” “All girls are,” she answered. She leaned out of her doorway to watch him as he limped down the corridor to his own room. There was something pathetic, something disappointed and weary in the movement of his figure, and when she shut her door, and ran back to her mirror, she could not see the good-looking girl there for her tears. XXVIII. “Hello!” said Bartley, one day after the autumn had brought back all the summer wanderers to the city, “I haven't seen you for a month of Sundays.” He had Ricker by the hand, and he pulled him into a doorway to be a little out of the rush on the crowded pavement, while they chatted. “That's because I can't afford to go to the White Mountains, and swell round at the aristocratic summer resorts like some people,” returned Ricker. “I'm a horny-handed son of toil, myself.” “Pshaw!” said Bartley. “Who isn't? I've been here hard at it, except for three days at one time and live at another.” “Well, all I can say is that I saw in the Record personals, that Mr. Hubbard, of the Events, was spending the summer months with his father-in-law, Judge Gaylord, among the spurs of the White Mountains. I supposed you wrote it yourself. You're full of ideas about journalism.” “Oh, come! I wouldn't work that joke any more. Look here, Ricker, I'll tell you what I want. I want you to dine with me.” “Dines people!” said Ricker, in an awestricken aside. “No,--I mean business! You've never seen my kid yet: and you've never seen my house. I want you to come. We've all got back, and we're in nice running order. What day are you disengaged?” “Let me see,” said Ricker, thoughtfully. “So many engagements! Wait! I could squeeze your dinner in some time next month, Hubbard.” “All right. But suppose we say next Sunday. Six is the hour.” “Six? Oh, I can't dine in the middle of the forenoon that way! Make it later!” “Well, we'll say one P.M., then. I know your dinner hour. We shall expect you.” “Better not, till I come.” Bartley knew that this was Ricker's way of accepting, and he said nothing, but he answered his next question with easy joviality. “How are you making it with old Witherby?” “Oh, hand over hand! Witherby and I were formed for each other. By, by!” “No, hold on! Why don't you come to the club any more?” “We-e-ll! The club isn't what it used to be,” said Bartley, confidentially. “Why, of course! It isn't just the thing for a gentleman moving in the select circles of Clover Street, as you do; but why not come, sometimes, in the character of distinguished guest, and encourage your humble friends? I was talking with a lot of the fellows about you the other night.” “Were they abusing me?”