“We shall be quite a small party. If I once started asking anybody outside our real friends, I should have to ask everybody.”
The door opened.
“Mr Rooke,” announced the maid.
Freddie, like Mr Pilkington, was a prey to gloom this morning. He had read one or two of the papers, and they had been disgustingly lavish in their praise of The McWhustle of McWhustle. It made Freddie despair of the New York press. In addition to this, he had been woken up at seven o’clock, after going to sleep at three, by the ringing of the telephone and the announcement that a gentleman wished to see him: and he was weighed down with that heavy-eyed languor which comes to those whose night’s rest is broken.
“Why, how do you do, Mr Rooke!” said Mrs Peagrim.
“How-de-do,” replied Freddie, blinking in the strong light from the window. “Hope I’m not barging in and all that sort of thing? I came round about this party tonight, you know.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Was wondering,” said Freddie, “if you would mind if I brought a friend of mine along? Popped in on me from England this morning. At seven o’clock,” said Freddie plaintively. “Ghastly hour, what! Didn’t do a thing to the good old beauty sleep! Well, what I mean to say is, I’d be awfully obliged if you’d let me bring him along.”
“Why, of course,” said Mrs Peagrim. “Any friend of yours, Mr Rooke …”
“Thanks awfully. Special reason why I’d like him to come, and all that. He’s a fellow named Underhill. Sir Derek Underhill. Been a pal of mine for years and years.”