Cyril Clatworthy was on his feet, joining in the chorus, with a loud joyous voice.
“We’ll follow John Peel through fair and through foul,
If we want a good hunt in the morning!”
“Bravo! Bravo!”
He laughed as he sat down.
“I used to sing that when I was Captain of the School,” he said. “A long time ago, eh? How many centuries?... I was as clean a fellow as you’d meet in those days. Keen as mustard on cricket. Some bat, too! That was before the dirty war, and the stinking trenches; and fever, and lice, and dead bodies, and all that. But I was telling you about Yvonne, wasn’t I?”
“Marguérite,” I reminded him.
“No. Yvonne. I met her at Cassel. A brown-eyed thing. Demure. You know the type?... One of the worst little sluts I ever met. Oh, a wicked little witch!... Well, I paid for that affair. That policeman was wrong.”
“What policeman?” I asked.