“Well, I can’t go myself. I shan’t be here. I’ve got to go to London today with young Egbert.” Egbert was Lord Wickhammersley’s son, the one Bingo was tutoring. “He’s going for a visit down in Kent, and I’ve got to see him off at Charing Cross. It’s an infernal nuisance. I shan’t be back till Monday afternoon. In fact, I shall miss most of the sports, I expect. Everything, therefore, depends on you, Bertie.”

“But why should either of us go to evening service?”

“Ass! Harold sings in the choir, doesn’t he?”

“What about it? I can’t stop him dislocating his neck over a high note, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“Fool! Steggles sings in the choir, too. There may be dirty work after the service.”

“What absolute rot!”