speak. Though I assured him how much we’d all like to have him.”
“Oh, he’ll come, I guess,” Fairchild said. “He’d be a fool not to let her feed him for a few days.”
“He’d pay a fairly high price for his food,” the Semitic man remarked drily. Fairchild looked at him and he added: “Gordon hasn’t served his apprenticeship yet, you know. You’ve got through yours.”
“Oh,” Fairchild grinned. “Well, yes, I did kind of play out on her, I reckon.” He turned to Mr. Talliaferro. “Has she been to him in person to sell him the trip, yet?”
Mr. Talliaferro hid his mild retrospective discomfort behind a lighted match. “Yes. She stopped in this afternoon. I was with him at the time.”
“Good for her,” the Semitic man applauded, and Fairchild said with interest:
“She did? What did Gordon say?”
“He left,” Mr. Talliaferro admitted mildly.
“Walked out on her, did he?” Fairchild glanced briefly at the Semitic man. He laughed. “You are right,” he agreed. He laughed again, and Mr. Talliaferro said:
“He really should come, you know. I thought perhaps”—diffidently—“that you’d help me persuade him. The fact that you will be with us, and your—er—assured position in the creative world . . .”
“No, I guess not,” Fairchild decided. “I’m not much of a hand for changing folks” opinions. I guess I won’t meddle with it.”
“But, really,” Mr. Talliaferro persisted, “the trip would benefit the man’s work. Besides,” he added with inspiration, “he will round out our party. A novelist, a painter—”
“I am invited, too,” the blond young man put in sepulchrally. Mr. Talliaferro accepted him with apologetic effusion.
