"A thousand pardons!" he said, raising his hat. The graceful lilt of his voice was peculiarly reminiscent; his smooth brow and silky fair hair were both familiar and elusive.
"One moment——" He gazed into my face with a searching look, keeping his hat poised in the air as if the better to concentrate his thoughts. "Not the Pest?" he said.
I nodded, and, if the truth be told, felt not a little pleased at the sound of the old nom d'école earned when I was at Westminster.
"And how," I said, "is the Blower of Bubbles?"
For answer he replaced his hat at a rakish angle and shook my hand with both his for what seemed a full minute, the crowd parting good-naturedly like a wave encircling a rock.
"My dear old Pest," he said, "we shall dine together."
"I'm sorry, but——"
"There is a perfectly vile restaurant half-a-mile from here, that has the best violinist and the worst cook in London."
"My dear chap——"
"Of all the luck! Think of my running into you on Christmas Eve!"