“You haven’t answered my question,” said Marriott. “What brings you up here at this time of day?”
“Business, my boy, purely business. Give Gustave your order.”
Marriott smiled, rattled off his desires, and turned again to Peter.
“Glad to see an improvement in you. The other day you were talking about ‘chucking’ it all and going out to ‘God’s own Country’ or somewhere.”
“Wish I could, Marriott, but I can’t. I’m afraid the improvement about which you are babbling so delightfully will be short-lived. These peas are really excellent—you’ll enjoy them!”
“Good! Any news of importance?”
“Only that the next Coal Strike is expected to last twenty-two years or thereabouts.”
“Really,” grinned Marriott. “Tell me something fresh. Say Queen Anne’s dead!”
Peter pushed back his plate with an air of complete satisfaction and made a reply that seemed to leap to his tongue without his brain having undergone any preliminary process of thinking. It seemed to be entirely spontaneous and at the same time to him as he sat there, peculiarly appropriate. It fitted in with the morning so happily.
“So’s Mary, Queen of Scots!” He blew a ring of smoke to the ceiling. As he spoke, there happened to be a lull pervading the whole room. A lull that was violently and almost instantaneously shattered! The man at the next table turned sharply as the words tingled through the air, and as he turned, with his body for the brief moment excitedly uncontrolled, his arm abruptly swept the cruet from the table to the floor.