Stout chappie. Couldn’t place him for a second. Then I got him. Bingo Little’s uncle, the one I had lunch with at the time when young Bingo 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?”