"It's a damned sad thing," said Fleetwood slowly.
After a pause Plank said: "I think so, too. … I don't know him very well."
"You may know him better now," said O'Hara insolently.
Plank reddened, and, after a moment: "I should be glad to, if he cares to know me."
"Mortimer doesn't care for him, but he's an awfully good fellow, all the same," said Fleetwood, turning to Plank; "he's been an ass, but who hasn't? I like him tremendously, and I feel very bad over the mess he made of it after that crazy dinner I gave in my rooms. What? You hadn't heard of it? Why man, it's the talk of the clubs."
"I suppose that is why I haven't heard," said Plank simply; "my club-life is still in the future."
"Oh!" said Fleetwood with an involuntary stare, surprised, a trifle uncomfortable, yet somehow liking Plank, and not understanding why.
"I'm not in anything, you see; I'm only up for the Patroons and the Lenox," added Plank gravely.
"I see. Certainly. Er--hope you'll make 'em; hope to see you there soon. Er--I see by the papers you've been jollying the clergy, Mr. Plank. Awfully handsome of you, all that chapel business. I say: I've a cousin--er--young architect; Beaux Arts, and all that--just over. I'd awfully like to have him given a chance at that competition; invited to try, you see. I don't suppose it could be managed, now--"
"Would you like to have me ask the bishops?" inquired Plank, naively shrewd. And the conversation became very cordial between the two, which Mortimer observed, keeping one ironical eye on Plank, while he continued a desultory discussion with O'Hara concerning a very private dinner which somebody told somebody that somebody had given to Quarrier and the Inter-County Electric people; which, if true, plainly indicated who was financing the Inter-County scheme, and why Amalgamated stock had tumbled again yesterday, and what might be looked for from the Algonquin Trust Company's president.
"Amalgamated Electric doesn't seem to like it a little bit," said O'Hara. "Ferrall, Belwether, and Siward are in it up to their necks; and if Quarrier is really the god in the machine, and if he really is doing stunts with Amalgamated Electric, and is also mixing feet with the Inter-County crowd, why, he is virtually paralleling his own road; and why, in the name of common sense, is he doing that? He'll kill it; that's what he'll do."
"He can afford to kill it," observed Mortimer, punching the electric button and making a significant gesture toward his empty glass as the servant entered; "a man like Quarrier can afford to kill anything."