“My dear, you are naughty about money. But you shouldn’t pay him tonight, anyway; you’re his guest. How nice and slim he looked in his white waistcoat, and his dark thick lashes!”

“Oh, but we may go to the theatre, you see, Mother; and I think I ought to stand the tickets; he’s always hard up, you know.”

Winifred produced a five-pound note, saying:

“Well, perhaps you’d better pay him, but you mustn’t stand the tickets too.”

Val pocketed the fiver.

“If I do, I can’t,” he said. “Good night, Mum!”

He went out with his head up and his hat cocked joyously, sniffing the air of Piccadilly like a young hound loosed into covert. Jolly good biz! After that mouldy old slow hole down there!