“I am here this afternoon, Charles,” he said, with what practically amounted to bonhomie, “on what I might describe as a mission. Yes, a mission. This is most excellent chicken.”

“Glad you like it,” mumbled old Biffy.

“Singularly toothsome,” said Sir Roderick, pronging another half ounce. “Yes, as I was saying, a mission. You young fellows nowadays are, I know, content to live in the centre of the most wonderful metropolis the world has seen, blind and indifferent to its many marvels. I should be prepared⁠—were I a betting man, which I am not⁠—to wager a considerable sum that you have never in your life visited even so historic a spot as Westminster Abbey. Am I right?”

Biffy gurgled something about always having meant to.

“Nor the Tower of London?”

No, nor the Tower of London.