“Thanks,” said Caister, “I’m all right.” And he thought: ‘He’s a damned amateur, but a nice little man.’
“Sit here. Waiter, bring us a good big lobstah and a salad; and then—er—a small fillet of beef with potatoes fried crisp, and a bottle of my special hock. Ah! and a rum omelette—plenty of rum and sugah. Twig?”
And Caister thought: ‘Thank God, I do.’
They had sat down opposite each other at one of two small tables in the little recessed room.
“Luck!” said Bryce-Green.
“Luck!” replied Caister; and the cocktail trickling down him echoed: ‘Luck!’
“And what do you think of the state of the drama?” Oh! ho! A question after his own heart. Balancing his monocle by a sweetish smile on the opposite side of his mouth, Caister drawled his answer: “Quite too bally awful!”
“H’m! Yes,” said Bryce-Green; “nobody with any genius, is there?”
And Caister thought: ‘Nobody with any money.’
“Have you been playing anything great? You were so awfully good in ‘Gotta Grampus’!”