"I tried to convey to you," observed Skinner, somewhat loftily, "that we couldn't dine at the Wilkinsons' before Saturday. That covers it, I think." According to Skinner's plans, the dinner at the Wilkinsons' was to be the big, climactic drive at the fortress of Willard Jackson's stubbornness. As Skinner had reckoned, Mrs. Curmudgeon W. Jackson nosed out the paragraph in the morning paper, first thing. "Who is this Mr. Skinner, Willard? Do you know him?" "What Skinner?" "William Manning Skinner." "Never heard of him." "He's of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc.,--your old friends." Jackson pricked up his ears. "What's he doing here? Does it say?" "No." "I know," said Jackson shrewdly. "He's out here after me." He chuckled. "They've been sending emissaries to get me back ever since I quit 'em. Even the partners came out, one at a time. That shows what they think of my trade." "Skinner's got his wife with him." "I don't blame him. It's a devilish mean business going on the road without some one to look after you." Jackson paused. "But he can't disguise his fine Italian hand that way. I know those fellows." "She's some swell," said Mrs. Jackson. "Daughter of the late Archibald Rutherford, of Hastings-on-the-Hudson." "That don't mean anything. The way they write it makes it _look_ aristocratic. Rutherford!--he might have been a butcher! And Hastings-on-the-Hudson! Well, they have butchers there as well as Astors!" "Mebbe you're right." "I'll bet you a new dress Skinner'll be after me to-day," said Jackson, folding his newspaper and preparing to leave for his office. "Trust your Uncle Dudley here--I know." The very first words that greeted Jackson that night when he reached home were, "I get the dress, don't I?" "How do you know?" "Skinner didn't get after you to-day. Look!" Mrs. Jackson held up the evening paper and read aloud. "'A belated honeymoon--that's what we're here for more than anything else,' said Mr. William Manning Skinner, of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., of New York, to a reporter this afternoon. The Skinners had just returned from a spin over beyond Minneapolis with the J. Matthews Wilkinsons--" "The devil you say!" said Jackson, reaching over and taking the paper. "Aw!" He chucked the paper aside. "That don't establish their social status any more than living in Hastings-on-the-Hudson or being a Rutherford. It don't amount to anything. It's just business. Fellows like Wilkinson, when some outsider is n't quite good enough socially and they want to swell his head without committing themselves, take him in their car or to the club. In that way they save their business faces without sacrificing their social faces. I know," he growled. "But how did he get in with the Wilkinsons? They have n't any business."