“Pillbottle of the Duchess!” read young Dennant, taking up the book. “You been reading that? Rippin', is n't it?”
“Oh, ripping!” replied Shelton.
“Rippin' plot! When you get hold of a novel you don't want any rot about—what d'you call it?—psychology, you want to be amused.”
“Rather!” murmured Shelton.
“That's an awfully good bit where the President steals her diamonds There's old Benjy! Hallo, Benjy!”
“Hallo, Bill, old man!”
This Benjy was a young, clean-shaven creature, whose face and voice and manner were a perfect blend of steel and geniality.
In addition to this young man who was so smooth and hard and cheery, a grey, short-bearded gentleman, with misanthropic eyes, called Stroud, came up; together with another man of Shelton's age, with a moustache and a bald patch the size of a crown-piece, who might be seen in the club any night of the year when there was no racing out of reach of London.
“You know,” began young Dennant, “that this bounder”—he slapped the young man Benjy on the knee—“is going to be spliced to-morrow. Miss Casserol—you know the Casserols—Muncaster Gate.”
“By Jove!” said Shelton, delighted to be able to say something they would understand.