Billy Whittaker's hand struck the door of the bathroom between the bedrooms and Gregg thrust Marjorie's note into his pocket.
"Hello, Bill," he hailed casually, as Whittaker stood in the doorway. Communistic use of personal possessions, between these two friends, had been stopped short of apparel by the fact that, though Gregg was tall enough, Billy was a big man. His light, yellow hair, half upright in obstinate, boyish pompadour, whenever not recently brushed down, almost touched the top of the low doorframe; Billy's was a broad, good-natured face, with steady and reliable eyes, hazel in color. Billy usually seemed a little flushed, especially when he was pleased and now he was warmly red in his satisfaction over the note which he held.
"Mrs. Hale's giving a dinner to-night before the Lovells' dance, Gregg," he announced. "I told Marjorie we were both going there; so she's asked me to dinner and told me to bring you along. You'll come, of course."
"Why, I don't know, Bill," Gregg said, temporizing.
"Why not?"
"Hartford"; Gregg recollected an excuse. "I ought to see him to-night. If I'm going up to that dance later, I'll have to get about to Hartford's place for dinner."
"What have you up with that fellow now?" Billy demanded, entering the room; and Gregg knew that, temporarily at least, he had diverted Bill by a challenge to his dearest ideals of man's work and life. "You're not thinking of changing into another line of business again to go with Hartford?"
"Why not?" Gregg this time inquired.
