"Nothing—Beryl is just a little grandmotherly. She went to the theatre last night with some people and she spotted me in a box."
"I see," said Sir John drily, "and of course you were not alone in the box."
"Why on earth should I be?" demanded the other. "Beryl is really unreasonable. She swore that my friend was a girl she had seen me with in the park."
"And who was it—is that a discreet question?"
"No it isn't," said Ronnie instantly. "I don't think one ought to chuck names about—it is most dishonorable and caddish. The lady was a very great friend of mine."
"Then I probably know her," said Sir John wilfully dense. "I know most of the people in your set, and I cannot imagine that you would be scoundrel enough to escort the kind of girl you couldn't introduce to me or Beryl or any other of your friends."
"I give you my word of honor," Ronnie was earnest, "that the lady was not only presentable, but is known personally to you. The fact is, that she had a row with her fiancé, a man I know very well, a Coldstreamer, and I was doing no more than trying to reconcile them—bring them together you understand. She was dreadfully depressed, and I got a box at the theatre with the idea of cheering her up. My efforts," he added virtuously, "were successful. Beryl said that it was a girl—the daughter of a dear friend of mine, she had seen me talking with in the park."
"What dear friend of yours was this?"
"I don't think you've met him," parried Ronnie.
"Did she have trouble with her fiancé, too?" asked Sir John innocently. "Really, Ronnie, you are coming out strong as a disinterested friend of distressed virgins! If I may employ the imagery and language of an American burglar whom I recently defended—Sir Galahad has nothing on you!"