He went off to the kitchen tittering to himself over an ancient joke which, together with his "feeling" for the psychological moment in the matter of roasts, was about all that was left him.
Stonehouse, his chin resting in his hand, studied the menu from which they had already chosen.
"When the last Honours List came out, he was quite serious and pathetic about it," he said. "Things move either too slowly or too quickly for old people. He does realize that I make quite a good story as I stand, but he wants the finishing touches—the King clasping me by the hand, or kissing me on both cheeks, or whatever he thinks happens on those occasions—and wedding bells as a grand finale."
"The place seems to have grown shabby," Cosgrave said. "Or perhaps it's only me."
"Oh, no. It is shabby. And perhaps you've noticed, they don't wait here as they used to."
Cosgrave looked directly at his companion, almost for the first time, and caught a spark in the eyes that stared into his—a rather dangerous spark, which cleverer people than himself had found difficult to make sure of. Then he laughed flatly.
"You can see how funny it is now——"
"I always did."
"—because you were so sure it would pan out—like this. How long is it?"
"About eight years."