“Perhaps we ought: it seems an ideal combination somehow. We might work out a synthetic creed of the Best and the Worst,” he added over his shoulder, turning to lead the way towards the dining tables at the further end of the room.
“It would pass the evening, at any rate.”
“And it might amuse Raoul,” said Monty, rather tentatively.
“Might it?”
“Possibly. He needs amusing, especially just now, you know. But I forgot—you don’t know Raoul?”
“Not from Wallace, is he?”
“Heavens, no!” and Monty smiled. “Oh, he’s—well, I’ve known him about the smoke-room for years back.”
Gaveston could scarcely have borne the tone of superiority in his friend’s voice had these words been uttered in less unfamiliar surroundings. But here Monty was evidently a par excellence habitué, and in the frankly Bohemian atmosphere, Gaveston was ready to make allowances.
“I must introduce you then.”
They had come to a corner table where a plump young man of twenty-two or twenty-three was seated, poring over the gilt-edged price-list.[10] As the pair stopped in front of him, he slowly raised his crisp, curly hair, and peered over the top of the card with the characteristic black beady eyes of a Frenchman.