Burton was looking a little sullen.
"It's all very well," he grumbled. "We're too jolly careful of ourselves. We don't get much fun. Here's your poky little restaurant. Let's see what it looks like inside."
They entered, and a maitre d'hôtel came hurrying to meet them. Burton, however, shook his head.
"This place is no good, Waddington," he decided. "Only about half-a-dozen stodgy old people here, no music, and nothing to look at. Let's go where there's some life. I'll take you. My lunch. Come along."
Mr. Waddington protested but faintly. He murmured a word of apology to the maitre d'hôtel, whom he knew, but Burton had already gone on ahead and was whistling for a taxi. With a groan, Mr. Waddington noticed that his hat had slipped a little on one side. There was a distinct return of his rakish manner.
"The Milan!" Burton ordered. "Get along as quick as you can. We are hungry."
The two men sat side by side in the taxicab. Mr. Waddington watched his companion in half-pained eagerness. Burton certainly was looking much more alert than earlier in the morning.
"I tell you money's a great thing," the latter went on, producing a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it. "I don't know why I should have worried about this little business adventure. I call it a first-class idea. I'd like to be able to take taxies whenever I wanted them, and go round to the big restaurants and sit and watch the people. Come to a music-hall one night, Mr. Waddington, won't you? I haven't seen anything really funny for a long time."
"I'm afraid I should like to," Mr. Waddington began,—"I mean I should be delighted."
"What are you afraid about?" Burton asked quickly.