"Every little helps," she said argumentatively. "It would be like opening the seventh heaven to her if I were to invite her here to dine. Just think what it would mean to her. She would meet--" "They probably eat with their knives and tuck their napkins under their chins." "I am sure that would be amusing," said she, eagerly. "It is so difficult nowadays to provide amusement for one's guests. Really, my dear, I think it is quite an idea. We could explain beforehand to the people we'll have in to meet them,--explain everything, you know. The plan for Stuyvesant, and everything." He was still staring. "Well, who would you suggest having in with Mr. and Mrs. Con McFaddan?" "Oh, the Cricklewicks, and the Blodgetts,--and old Mrs. Millidew,--I've been intending to have her anyway,--and perhaps the Van Ostrons and Cicely Braithmere, and I am sure we could get dear old Percy Tromboy. He would be frightfully amused by the McFinnegans, and--" "McFaddan," he edged in. "--and he could get a world of material for those screaming Irish imitations he loves to give. Now, when will you see Mr. McFaddan?" "You'd have to call on his wife, wouldn't you, before asking her to dinner?" "She probably never has heard of the custom," said Mrs. Smith-Parvis composedly. The next day, Mr. Smith-Parvis strolled into the offices of Mr. Cornelius McFaddan, Contractor, and casually remarked what a wonderful view of the Bay he had from his windows. "I dropped in, Mr. McFaddan," he explained, "to see if you were really in earnest about wanting to join the Oxford Country Club." He had decided that it was best to go straight to the point. McFaddan regarded him narrowly. "Did I ever say I wanted to join the Oxford Country Club?" he demanded. "Didn't you?" asked his visitor, slightly disturbed by this ungracious response. "I did not," said Mr. McFaddan promptly. "Dear me, I--I was under the impression--Ahem! I am sure you spoke of wanting to join a golf club." "That must have been some time ago. I've joined one," said the other, a little more agreeably. Mr. Smith-Parvis punched nervously with his cane at one of his pearl grey spats. The contractor allowed his gaze to shift. He didn't wear "spats" himself. "I am sorry. I daresay I could have rushed you through in the Oxford. They are mighty rigid and exclusive up there, but--well, you would have gone in with a rush. Men like you are always shoved through ahead of others. It isn't quite--ah--regular, you know, but it's done when a candidate of special prominence comes up. Of course, I need not explain that it's--ah--quite sub rosa?" "Sure," said Mr. McFaddan promptly; "I know. We do it at the Jolly Dog Club." He was again eyeing his visitor narrowly, speculatively. "It's mighty good of you, Mr. Smith-Parvis. Have a cigar?"