was in love with that waitress at the Piccadilly bun-shop. No wonder I hadn’t recognised him at first. When I had seen him last he had been a rather sloppy old gentleman—coming down to lunch, I remember, in carpet slippers and a velvet smoking-jacket; whereas now dapper simply wasn’t the word. He absolutely gleamed in the sunlight in a silk hat, morning coat, lavender spats and sponge-bag trousers, as now worn. Dressy to a degree.
“Oh, hallo!” I said. “Going strong?”
“I am in excellent health, I thank you. And you?”
“In the pink. Just been over to America.”
“Ah! Collecting local colour for one of your delightful romances?”
“Eh?” I had to think a bit before I got on to what he meant. Then I remembered the Rosie M. Banks business. “Oh, no,” I said. “Just felt I needed a change. Seen anything of Bingo lately?” I asked quickly, being desirous of heading the old thing off what you might call the literary side of my life.
“Bingo?”
“Your nephew.”
“Oh, Richard? No, not very recently. Since my marriage a little coolness seems to have sprung up.”
“Sorry to hear that. So you’ve married since I saw you, what? Mrs. Little all right?”
“My wife is happily robust. But—er— not Mrs. Little. Since we last met a gracious Sovereign has been pleased to bestow on me a signal mark of his favour in the shape of—ah—a peerage. On the publication of the last Honours List I became Lord Bittlesham.”