“You’ve just told me there was to be twelve guests. That’s all right. There’ll be only twelve. I’ll be one of the twelve. Blacarda was invited. He’s laid up in the hospital from a car acc’dent an’ can’t come. I’m helpin’ you out by takin’ his place. No inconvenience to anyone. Unless maybe you think your daughter an’ your sister-in-law won’t care to meet me?” “Not at all! Nonsense!” fumed Standish, in fearful straits. “They’d be very glad indeed. But--” “Then that’s settled,” decided Conover. “Thanks.” He bent over the check book, pen in hand. Standish, at his wit’s end, made one more attempt to drag himself free of the dilemma. “I know you won’t be offended,” he faltered, with another dry cough, “if I say frankly,--frankness is always best, I think,--that I--” Caleb closed the check book with a snap and whirled his desk chair about, to face his visitor; so suddenly that the latter involuntarily started back. Not even Standish could now misread that dull, hot glint in Conover’s pale eyes. “Look here, Mr. Standish,” said the Fighter. “Don’t ever make the blunder of thinkin’ a man can’t understand you just because you can’t understand him. If you’d said to one of your own crowd: ‘I can’t invite you to my house because my fam’ly’s goin’ to be there; because you ain’t fit to meet my women,’--if you’d said that to one of them, he’d a’ been your enemy for life. You wouldn’t a’dared insult him so. But you said it to me because you thought I wouldn’t understand. Well, I do. Shut up! I know what you want to say, an’ I don’t want to hear it. I’m not comin’ to your house for love of _you_; but I’m comin’ just the same--I guess I’ve bought my right to. If a man’s good enough to beg from, he’s good enough to treat civil. An’ you’re goin’ to treat _me_ civil. This afternoon I’m goin’ to get an invite to your dinner an’ the musicle. You ought to be grateful that I don’t insist on singin’ there. I’m goin’ on Friday, an’ you’re goin’ to pass the word around that I’m to be treated right, while I’m there. Just to make sure of it, I’ll date this check ahead to next Saturday.” A last remnant of manhood flared up within the consumptive old bank president’s withered soul. “I’m not to be bulldozed, Mr. Conover!” he said with a certain dignity. “Because you extend business favors to me, I am not obliged to admit a man of your character to my home. And I shall not. As for the loan--” “As for the loan,” replied Conover, shrugging his shoulders, and tossing the check book back in the drawer, “I’m not obliged to stave off ruin from a man that thinks I’m not fit to enter his home. That’s all. Good-day.” He slammed shut the desk drawer, and began to look over some of the opened letters before him. The old man had risen to his feet, his eyes fixed on the closed drawer like those of a starved dog on a chunk of meat. His mouth-corners twitched and humiliation forced an unwonted moisture into his eyes. “Mr. Conover,” he began, tentatively.