“Good heavens, have I done the wrong thing again?” thought Braybrooke, who had chosen the play almost at random, without knowing much about it except that an actor unknown to him, one Moscovitch, was said to be very fine in it.
“How old is the singer?” he inquired anxiously.
“I couldn’t say for certain, sir. But somewhere in the forties, I should think, and nearing fifty. He loses his voice, sir, but still answers to young women at the telephone.”
“Dear! Dear!”
“But as my wife says, sir, with a man it’s not such a great matter. But with a woman—well!”
He pursed his narrow lips and half-shut his small grey eyes.
“Ah!” said Braybrooke, feeling extremely uncomfortable. “Good night, Walter. You needn’t sit up.”
“Thank you, sir. Good night, sir.”
“Really the evil eye must have looked at me!” thought Braybrooke, as he went downstairs. “I’m thoroughly out of luck.”
He arrived in good time at the Carlton and waited for his guests in the Palm Court. Craven was the first to arrive. He looked cheerful and eager as he came in, and, Braybrooke thought, very young and handsome. He had got away from the F. O. that afternoon, he said, and had been down at Beaconsfield playing golf. Apparently his game had been unusually good and that fact had put him into spirits.