Torps lit a cigarette. "That's only in books. We'll have breakfast, and take your gear up to the hotel, and then we'll play nine holes of golf—just to take our minds off frivolous subjects."
"Golf! My dear old ass, I couldn't drive a yard!"
"Well, you're going to have a try, anyway. Everything's arranged that can be: you aren't allowed to drink cocktails; you can't see Her—till two o'clock. You'd fret yourself into a fever here in bed—what else do you think you're going to do?"
The prospective bridegroom stirred his tea in silence. "Well, I suppose there's something in all that; pass me a cigarette—there's a box just there.... Oh, thanks, old bird; don't quite know why I should be treated as if I were an irresponsible and feeble-minded invalid, just because I'm going to be married."
The Best Man laughed. "How d'you feel about it yourself?"
"H'm.... D'you remember one morning at Kao-chu—was that the name of the place? It began to dawn, and we saw those yellow devils coming up, a thousand or so of the blighters: we had a half-company and no maxim, d'you remember? It was dev'lish cold, and we wanted our breakfasts, ... and we were about sixteen?"
Torps smiled recollection. "Bad's that?"
"Very nearly."
"I remember—what they call in the quack advertisements 'That Sickish Feeling'! Never mind, turn out and scrape your face; you'll feel much better after your bath——"
Outside in the flat the voice of some one carolling drew near—