“It’s easy fixed,” he said. “All you got to do is slip a bill to the waiter. You don’t even have to do that, because François will get a rake-off from the girls later. He has a list of their telephone numbers, see? He calls them up, and in a few minutes a pair of them will breeze in and say: ‘_So_ sorry we were late!’” Wilfred miserably shook his head. “You don’t need to be afraid of them,” said Joe. “Just because they look like Duchesses. They wouldn’t be let in here if they didn’t. They’re just girls like any others. They’ll make it easy for you, when they see you’re green.” This was bitter for Wilfred. “I’m not afraid of them,” he said quickly. Joe laughed again. “Aw, come on,” he said. “I’m not dressed. . . .” “It don’t matter,” said Joe. “So long as you have the price.” “But I haven’t,” said Wilfred desperately. “Oh Hell!” said Joe. “I didn’t suppose you had. This is on me. . . . Look!” He produced a wallet from his breast pocket, and partly opening it, revealed a thick stuffing of crisp new yellow-backed bills. “That’s my Sunday money. I’ll go halves with you.” “I . . . I couldn’t,” stammered Wilfred, grinding his teeth. “Why not? Money means nothing to me. I mean spending money. It would be fun to give you a swell, expensive time for once. You look as if you needed it. Come on; to-morrow’s Sunday.” Wilfred thought: This is not generosity, but merely the desire to shine at my expense. He was almost suffocated with wounded pride. He could not trust himself to speak; but merely shook his head again. Joe was enjoying his discomfiture. “Haven’t you ever?” he asked, grinning. “Sure!” lied Wilfred. “But I didn’t buy it.” “Oh, sure!” said Joe. “Love. That’s all right, too. But there’s something about a pretty girl you never saw before, and never expect to see again . . . you don’t give a damn, and she don’t. . . . Look here, I’ll lend you the money. You can pay me back.” He held up a finger for François. “You’ll have to entertain them by yourself,” warned Wilfred. “I won’t stay!” “Oh, to Hell with it, then!” said Joe, disgruntled. When the waiter came, Joe asked for their bill. Wilfred insisted on paying for half the drinks, taking care to conceal from Joe how thinly his wallet was lined. They left the café in silence. On the pavement outside, Joe signalled for a cab, and Wilfred stiffly bade him good-bye. Joe, grinning sideways at Wilfred, caught hold of his arm. “Wait a minute, fellow!” Wilfred read that grin perfectly. His thoughts were bitter. “Come along with me,” Joe said. “I’m going up to see my girl—my steady girl I mean. Been going with her five years. Almost like an old married pair.” “Sorry, I can’t,” said Wilfred. “Some other time. . . .” “Aw, come on. This is just a social call. She’s a peach of a looker. She’ll put you at your ease. . . .” Wilfred detached his arm. “Sorry, I can’t,” he said. “Good-bye.” Joe, one foot on the step of the cab, called after him: “Say, Kid, it’s time you grew up!”