"
Durnovo shook his head and looked down at his wrinkled and draggled
clothing.
"No, I can't do that, old man. Not in this trim."
"Bosh? What matter? Jocelyn doesn't mind."
"No, but I do."
It was obvious that he wanted to accept the invitation, although the
objection he raised was probably honest. For that taint in the
blood that cometh from the subtle tar-brush brings with it a vanity
that has its equal in no white man's heart.
"Well, I'll lend you a black coat! Seven o'clock sharp!"
Durnovo hurried away with a gleam of excitement in his dark eyes.
Maurice Gordon did not resume his work at once. He sat for some
time idly drumming with his fingers on the desk.
"If I can only get her to be civil to him," he reflected aloud,
"I'll get into this business yet."
At seven o'clock Durnovo appeared at the Gordons' house. He had
managed to borrow a dress-suit, and wore an orchid in his
buttonhole. It was probably the first time that Jocelyn had seen
him in this garb of civilisation, which is at the same time the most
becoming and the most trying variety of costume left to sensible men
in these days. A dress-suit finds a man out sooner than anything
except speech.
Jocelyn was civil in her reception--more so, indeed, than Maurice
Gordon had hoped for.
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