“Ditto here,” said Hungerford.
Now Stover was in a quandary. He was divided between two emotions. He firmly thought that he had never looked so transcendingly the perfect man of fashion, but he had numerous busy doubts as to whether the exquisite costume was as appropriate at a quiet Sunday dinner as it undoubtedly would have been in a sporting audience. Still, to make a change now, under the malicious inspection of Tough McCarthy, would be to invite a storm of joyful ridicule, so he said hopefully.
“Think it all right to go in this?”
“Why not?”
As this put the burden of the proof on him, Stover remained silent, but compromised a little by exchanging a rather forward vest for one of calmer aspect.
“Well,” he said, at last, with something between a gulp and a sigh, “I suppose we’d better push along.”
“I suppose so,” said Hungerford, who brought a strangle hold to bear on his necktie and shot a last look down at the slightly wavering line of his trousers.
At the door, the vision of McNab, like a visiting English duke, bore down upon them.
“Where in the thunder did you get the boutonnière?” said Stover, examining him critically.
“Why, Dopey, you’re a dude!” said Hungerford disapprovingly.
“Everything is correct—brilliant, but correct,” said McNab with a flip of his fingers. “Come on now—we’re late.”
Halfway there, when the conversation had completely fizzled out, McNab said cheerily:
“How d’ye feel? Getting a little nervous, eh? Getting cold feelings up and down your back? Fingers twitching—what?”
“Don’t be an ass,” said Hungerford huskily.
“Chump,” said Stover, feeling all at once the tightness of his vest.
“ ’Course you know, boys, you’re dressed all wrong—in shocking taste. You know that, don’t you? Thought I’d better tell you before the girls begin giggling at you.”
“Huh!”
“Joe’s bad enough in a liver-colored sack, but Dink’s unspeakable!”
“I am! What’s wrong?”
“Fancy wearing a colored shirt—and such a color! You’re gotten up for a boating party—not for a formal lunch. You’re unspeakable, Dink, unspeakable! Look at me. I’m a delight—black and white, immaculate, impressive, and absolutely correct.”
By this time they had reached the steps.
“Now, don’t try to shine your shoes on your trousers. It always shows. Don’t stumble or trip when you go in. Don’t bump against the furniture. Don’t stutter. Don’t hold on to your hostess to keep from falling over. And don’t, don’t shoot your cuffs.”
McNab’s malicious advice reduced Hungerford to a panic, while only the consciousness of his public importance prevented Stover from bolting as he saw McNab press the button.
“Stand up straight and keep your hands out of your pockets.”
“Dopey, I’ll wring your neck if you don’t stop!”
“Ditto.”
“Say something interesting to every girl,” continued McNab, in a solemn whisper. “Talk about art or literature.”
The door opened, and they stumbled into the anteroom, from which escape was impossible.
“Dink,” said McNab in a last whisper.
“What?”
“Don’t ask twice for soup, and stop shooting that cuff.”
The next moment Stover, who had been thrust forward by the other two, found himself crossing the perilous track of slippery rugs on slippery floors, and suddenly the cynosure of at least a hundred eyes.
Judge Story had him by the hand, patting him on the back, smiling up at him with a smile he never forgot—a little lithe man bristling with good humor and the genius of good cheer.
“Stover, I’m glad to shake your hand. We did all we could for you in those last rushes. We rooted hard. My wife assaulted a clergyman in front of her, and my daughter was found afterward weeping with her arms around the man next to her. I certainly am proud to shake your hand. I won’t shake it too long, because”—here he looked up in a confidential whisper—“because the girls have been fidgeting at the window for an hour. Look them over and tell me which one you want to sit next to you, and I’ll fix it.”
“Dad, aren’t you awful?” said a voice in only laughing disapproval.
“My daughter,” said the judge, passing joyfully on to Hungerford.
“Indeed, I’m very glad to meet you.”
He shook hands, a trifle embarrassed, with a young lady of quiet self-possession, gentle in voice and action, with somewhat of the thoughtful reserve of her brother.
He followed her, only half conscious of a certain floating grace and the pleasure of following her movements, bowing with cataleptic bobs of his head as the introductions ran on:
“Miss Sparkes.”
“Miss Green.”
“Miss Woostelle.”
“Miss Raymond.”
Then he straightened and allowed his chin to right itself over the brink of his mounting collar, smiling, but without hearing the outburst that went up from the equally agitated sex:
“Isn’t the Judge perfectly terrible!”
“You mustn’t believe a word he says.”
“Don’t you think he’s lovely, though?”
“We really were so excited at the game.”
“Oh, dear, I almost cried my eyes out.”
“We thought you were perfectly splendid.”
“We did want you to score so.”
“I just hated those Princeton men, they were so much bigger.”
Hungerford and McNab coming up for presentation, he found himself a little to leeward, clinging to a chair, and, opening his eyes, perceived for the first time Hunter, with whom he shook hands with the convulsiveness of a death grip.
Miss Sparkes, a rather fluttering brunette with dimples and enthusiastic eyes, cut off his retreat and isolated him in a corner, where he was forced to listen to a disquisition on the theory of football, supremely conscious that the unforgiving McNab was making him a subject of conversation with the young lady to whom he was rapidly succumbing.
The entrance of Mrs. Story and Bob, and the welcome descent on the dining-room, for a moment made him forget the awful fact that he had perceived, on his entrance, that the green shirt was, in fact, nothing short of a social outrage.
“Everyone sitting next to the person they want,” said the Judge roguishly, his glance rolling around the table. “By George, if that body-snatcher of a Miss Sparkes hasn’t bagged Stover—well, I never! Seems to me a certain party named Hungerford has done very well indeed. McNab, I perceive, is
