“It’s awkward,” said young Bingo. “It’s infernally awkward. I can’t tell you all the details at the moment, but⁠ ⁠… yes, it’s awkward.”

He helped himself absently to a handful of my cigars and pushed off.

I didn’t see him again for three days. Early in the afternoon of the third day he blew in with a flower in his buttonhole and a look on his face as if someone had hit him behind the ear with a stuffed eel skin.

“Hallo, Bertie.”

“Hallo, old turnip. Where have you been all this while?”

“Oh, here and there! Ripping weather we’re having, Bertie.”

“Not bad.”

“I see the Bank Rate is down again.”