Sir Fletcher Portwood.
Why, one has rather a feeling of constraint in sitting down to Allingham’s table—at any rate until matters are in a more settled state. [To Fraser.] You wouldn’t care to—to make the plunge?
Fraser.
Plunge——?
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
To break the ice?
Fraser.
Eat his lunch!
Sir Fletcher Portwood.
[Sitting on the settee and arranging his papers.] No, no; I can quite understand——