Whereupon he put his feet on the opposite cushion and either slept or pretended to sleep until we reached Hungerford. Then he yawned and looked at me.
"Can you hold out until we reach London?" he asked. "I don't want to stop for luncheon."
"Easily," I replied. "I had a good breakfast, and to tell you the truth," I added boldly, "I'm too curious to be hungry."
Mr. Thomson yawned and closed his eyes again.
"You can keep your curiosity and your appetite, too, if you like," he said, "until eight o'clock this evening, Milan Restaurant—not Grill Room."
"All three of us?" I asked.
"Yes."
Mr. Thomson closed his eyes, and not another word was spoken until he set me down at the Mayfair Hotel.
It was evidently not only at hotels that Mr. Thomson was persona grata. The table to which he led us on our arrival at the Milan was one of the best in the room. The chief maître d'hôtel himself was in attendance to exchange amenities with an evidently well-known and respected patron. The menu of a specially prepared dinner was deferentially handed to him by one of the minor luminaries. We seated ourselves with some faint return of that unreal feeling which had been evoked by the two previous feasts at which we had assisted. This one especially was hard to realise. Nowhere could the appurtenances of luxury have been more elaborately displayed. Pink, hothouse roses almost covered the tablecloth and gave a faint, exotic odour to the restful atmosphere of the room. Outside, the orchestra was playing with subdued and melodious cadence the music of "Louise." We seemed in an oasis, in a world far removed from the tragedies of the day.