boy. 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.
