"Funny language," observed Sir Ambrose, leaning over to point to the characters. "I've often wanted to meet a Chink who could tell me what they write on things like this. Look at that thing there like a tadpole with wings. I'll bet that's a particularly dirty swear — it's twice the size of the other words. Have a drink."
The Saint looked at his watch.
"I'm afraid I'll have to be getting home," he observed.
"Come and see me one evening," said Sir Ambrose. "You've got my address on my card, and I like your company. Come along one night next week, and I'll invite some girls."
Simon reached his flat in time to see Peter Quentin and Patricia Holm climbing out of a taxi. They were in evening dress, and the Saint surveyed them rudely.
"Well," he said, "have you mugs finished pretending to be numbers one and two of the Upper Ten?"
"He's jealous," said Patricia, on Peter Quentin's arm. "His own tails have been in pawn so long that the moths have done them in."
A misguided friend had presented the Saint with tickets for the Opera. Simon Templar, in one of his fits of perversity, had stated in no uncertain terms that it was too hot to put on a starched shirt and listen to perspiring tenors dying in C flat for four hours, and Peter Quentin had volunteered to be Patricia's escort.
"We thought of some bacon and eggs," Peter said, "and we wondered if you'd like to treat us."
"I thought you might treat me," murmured the Saint. "As an inducement for me to be seen out with a girl whose clothes have all slipped down below her waist, and a pie-faced tough disguised as a waiter, it's the least you can offer."