considered good form to talk to anyone unless you and he were through the Peninsular War together. It was a relief to come across Bingo. We started to talk in hushed voices.
“This club,” I said, “is the limit.”
“It is the eel’s eyebrows,” agreed young Bingo. “I believe that old boy over by the window has been dead three days, but I don’t like to mention it to anyone.”
“Have you lunched here yet?”
“No. Why?”
“They have waitresses instead of waiters.”
“Good Lord! I thought that went out with the armistice.”
Bingo mused a moment, straightening his tie absently. “Er—pretty girls?” he said.
“No.”
He seemed disappointed, but pulled round.
“Well,