“I didn’t come to talk about that.”

“No? Good egg!”

“The past,” said young Bingo, “is dead. Let us say no more about it.”

“Right-o!”

“I have been wounded to the very depths of my soul, but don’t speak about it.”

“I won’t.”

“Ignore it. Forget it.”

“Absolutely!”

I hadn’t seen him so dashed reasonable for days.

“What I came to see you about this morning, Bertie,” he said, fishing a sheet of paper out of his pocket, “was to ask if you would care to come in on another little flutter.”