“I don’t yet. But I will by then. I’ll get asked. You’re goin’ to the musicle part of it with Mrs. Hawarden, ain’t you, Dey? You said somethin’ about it yesterday. Well, you’ll see me there. Say!” as a new idea struck him, “how’d you like to be asked to the dinner, too? That’s the excloosive part of the whole show. Only about a dozen guests. More’n a couple of hundred at the musicle. Want to go to the dinner?” “Of course not,” she exclaimed. “What a crazy idea! As if you could get me an invitation, even if I _did_ want to!” “Oh, I could get it all right,” urged Caleb. “I’m goin’ myself.” Caine, who had dropped wholly out of the talk, rose to go. There was a curious restraint about his manner as he bade Desirée goodbye. “Well, _Caleb Conover_!” rebuked Desirée as soon as she and the Fighter were left alone. “Of all the historically idiotic plunges into other peoples’ greenhouses I _ever_ saw!” “What’ve I done now?” asked Caleb in due humility. “What _haven’t_ you done?” she retorted. “Don’t you know Mr. Caine is engaged to Letty Standish?” “I’d forgotten for the minute. What of it?” “There you sat and boasted you’d be invited to dinner at her house! When you don’t even know her. What _am_ I to do with you? I’ve a great mind to make you drink two more cups of tea!” “I don’t see yet what the row is,” he pleaded. “But I’ve riled you, Dey. I’m awful sorry. I oughtn’t to come here when there’s civilized folks callin’. I only make you ashamed, an’--” “How often must I tell you,” she cried angrily, her big eyes suddenly growing moist, “never to say such things? You know they hurt me!” “Why should it hurt anyone when I talk of goin’ to a--?” “I’m not speaking about the dinner. It’s about your not coming to see me. If people don’t like to meet my chum, they needn’t call on me. As for being ‘ashamed’ of _you_--here! Take this cup of tea and drink it. _Drink_ it, I say. And when you finish you must drink another. _All_ of it. With sugar in it. Two lumps. I don’t care if you do hate sweet things. You’ve got to be punished! Drink it!” Conover obediently gulped down the loathed liquid and held out his cup with an air of awkward contrition, for the second instalment of his penance. “_Now_, do I get forgiven?” he begged. “It’s vile stuff. An’ I drank every drop, Dey. Please be friends again. Aw, _please_ do!” “You big overgrown baby!” she said looking laughingly down into his red, remorseful face. “You talk very, _very_ loudly about being a ‘grown man’, and a financier. And some of the papers call you ‘Brute’ Conover--the wretched sheets! But you’re only about ten years old. No one knows you except me. To the others you may be able to talk as if you were grown up, but it never imposes on _me_ for a minute.”