“Diuretic.”
“And some whisky.”
“The great emetic,” said Coleman. “Come on.” And he struck up the March of the Fascisti. “Giovinezza, giovinezza, primavera di bellezza....” The noise went fading down the dark, empty streets.
The gin, the white wine, and even, for the sake of the young stranger, who wanted to sample everything, the emetic whisky, were produced.
“I like your rooms,” said Mrs. Viveash, looking round her. “And I resent your secrecy about them, Theodore.”
“Drink, puppy!” Coleman refilled the boy’s glass.
“Here’s to secrecy,” Gumbril proposed. Shut it tightly, keep it dark, cover it up. Be silent, prevaricate, lie outright. He laughed and drank. “Do you remember,” he went on, “those instructive advertisements of Eno’s Fruit Salt they used to have when we were young? There was one little anecdote about a doctor who advised the hypochondriacal patient who had come to consult him, to go and see Grimaldi, the clown; and the patient answered, ‘I am Grimaldi.’ Do you remember?”
“No,” said Mrs. Viveash. “And why do you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Or rather, I do know,” Gumbril corrected himself, and laughed again.
The young man suddenly began to boast. “I lost two hundred pounds yesterday playing chemin de fer,” he said, and looked round for applause.