A stranger, seeing them together, would have noticed an unseizable resemblance between these second cousins of the third generations of Forsytes; the same bone formation in face, though Jolly’s eyes were darker grey, his hair lighter and more wavy.

“Tea and buttered buns, waiter, please,” said Jolly.

“Have one of my cigarettes?” said Val. “I saw you last night. How did you do?”

“I didn’t play.”

“I won fifteen quid.”

Though desirous of repeating a whimsical comment on gambling he had once heard his father make⁠—“When you’re fleeced you’re sick, and when you fleece you’re sorry”⁠—Jolly contented himself with:

“Rotten game, I think; I was at school with that chap. He’s an awful fool.”