Peter shook hands and was speechless.
“What's your name?”
“Westcott.”
“Mine's Cardillac. It isn't spelt as it's spoken, you know. C-a-r-d-i-l-l-a-c. I'm in White's—what do you say to places next each other at table?”
“Rather.” Peter's face was crimson. “Thanks most awfully.” He stammered in his eagerness.
“Right you are—see you after chapel.” The boy moved away.
Peter said something to the infant whom he had delivered, and was considering where he might most unobtrusively wash when he was once more conscious of some one at his elbow. It was the slow boy who was smiling at him.
“I say, you're a sight. You'd better wash, you know.”
“Yes, I was just thinking of that only I didn't quite know where to go.”
“Come with me—I'll get round Mother Gill all right. She likes me. You've got some cheek. Prester and Banks Mi, and all sorts of fellows were in that crowd. You landed Prester nicely.” He chuckled. “What's your name?”