“About what?” I asked.
“Why, it’s the Palmers and the Grahams and the Hendersons. I’ve asked them all over to lunch, and there’s not a blessed thing on board but two mutton chops and a pound of potatoes, and I’ve given the boy a holiday.”
Another day I was lunching with him at the Junior Hogarth, when a man named Hallyard, a mutual friend, strolled across to us.
“What are you fellows going to do this afternoon?” he asked, seating himself the opposite side of the table.
“I’m going to stop here and write letters,” I answered.
“Come with me if you want something to do,” said McQuae. “I’m going to drive Leena down to Richmond.” (“Leena” was the young lady he recollected being engaged to. It transpired afterwards that he was engaged to three girls at the time. The other two he had forgotten all about.) “It’s a roomy seat at the back.”
“Oh, all right,” said Hallyard, and they went away together in a hansom.
An hour and a half later Hallyard walked into the smoking-room looking depressed and worn, and flung himself into a chair.
“I thought you were going to Richmond with McQuae,” I said.
“So did I,” he answered.