Berry raised his eyebrows.
"It's a place in Hampshire," he said. "Not very far from Brooch. They call it White Ladies."
The look which Jill gave us, as we acclaimed his words, came straight out of Paradise.
"I do wish he could have heard you," she said uncertainly. "I'll tell him, of course. But it won't be the same. And my memory isn't short-lived really. I'd forgotten the Angoulême dinner, but I shan't forget this lunch in a hundred years."
"In another minute," said Berry, "I shall imbrue this omelet with tears. Then it'll be too salt." He seized his tumbler and raised it above his head. "I give you Monsieur Roland. May he touch the ground in spots this afternoon. Five times he's lent me an 'unter-'oss out of sheer good nature; his taste in cocktails is venerable; and whenever I see him he asks when we're going to use his car."
We drank the toast gladly.
Roland was a good sportsman, and throughout the season at Pau he had been more than friendly. He was to ride two races at the meeting this afternoon.
"And now," said I, "get a move on. St. Jammes is ten miles off, and the road is vile. If we'd got Roland's flier, it 'ld be one thing, but Ping and Pong'll take their own time."
My brother-in-law frowned.
"Business first," he said shortly. "Business first. I spoke to the steward about the cutlets, and I won't have them rushed. And if that's our Brie on the sideboard—well, I, too, am in a melting mood, and it's just asking for trouble."