This young gentleman, who has been making his slow and somewhat graceful entrance on to our stage, was emphatically "London," and he too saw at once that something had happened. He looked about for an acquaintance, and then dropped in a leisurely manner into a chair by his side.
"Morning, Bertie," he remarked; "what's up?"
Bertie was not going to be hurried. He finished lighting a cigarette, and adjusted the tip neatly with his fingers.
"She's going to be married," he remarked.
Jack Broxton turned half round to him with a quicker movement than he had hitherto shown.
"Not Dodo?" he said.
"Yes."
Jack gave a low whistle.
"It isn't to you, I suppose?"
Bertie Arbuthnot leaned back in his chair with extreme languor. His enemies, who, to do him justice, were very few, said that if he hadn't been the tallest man in London, he would never have been there at all.