Jill poured out a cup of tea for her visitor, and looked at the clock.
“I wonder where Uncle Chris has got to,” she said. “He ought to be here by now. I hope he hasn’t got into any mischief among the wild stock-brokers down at Brighton.”
Freddie laid down his cup on the table and uttered a loud snort.
“Oh, Freddie, darling!” said Jill remorsefully. “I forgot! Stock-brokers are a painful subject, aren’t they!” She turned to Nelly. “There’s been an awful slump on the Stock Exchange today, and he got—what was the word, Freddie?”
“Nipped!” said Freddie with gloom.
“Nipped!”
“Nipped like the dickens!”
“Nipped like the dickens!” Jill smiled at Nelly. “He had forgotten all about it in the excitement of being a jailbird, and I went and reminded him.”
Freddie sought sympathy from Nelly.
“A silly ass at the club named Jimmy Monroe told me to take a flutter in some rotten thing called Amalgamated Dyes. You know how it is, when you’re feeling devilish fit and cheery and all that after dinner, and somebody sidles up to you and slips his little hand in yours and tells you to do some fool thing. You’re so dashed nappy you simply say ‘Right-ho, old bird! Make it so!’ That’s the way I got had!”