Lieut.-Colonel Uppingdon gave him an aristocratically withering look, and rose sedately from the table. He went over to where the young man sat and coughed discreetly.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, and the young man looked up from his idle study of the afternoon's runners at Sandown Park. "You must have thought me a trifle rude just now."
"Not at all," said the young man amiably. "I thought you were busy and didn't want to be bothered. How are things these days, George?"
The Colonel suppressed a start. The use of his Christian name implied an intimacy that was almost alarming, but the young man's pleasant features still struck no responsive chord in his memory.
"To tell you the truth," he said, "I'm afraid my eyes are not as good as they were. I didn't recognise you until you had gone by. Dear me! How long is it since I saw you last?"
The young man thought for a moment.
"Was it at Biarritz in 1929?"
"Of course!" exclaimed Uppingdon delightedly — he had never been to Biarritz in his life. "By Gad, how the times does fly! I never thought I should have to ask when I last saw you, my dear—"
He broke off short, and an expression of shocked dismay overspread his face.
"Good Gad!" he blurted. "You'll begin to think there's something the matter with me. Have you ever had a lapse of memory like that? I had your name on the tip of my tongue — I was just going to say it — and it slipped off! Wait — don't help me — didn't it begin with H?"