The two friends sat down and began to eat rather silently in the midst of the uproar of conversation round them. Valentine seemed quite unconscious of the many glances directed towards him. He never succeeded in passing unnoticed anywhere, and although he had never done anything remarkable, was one of the best-known men in town merely by virtue of his unusual personality.
"There's the Victoria Street Saint," murmured a pretty girl to her companion. "What a fortune that man could make on the stage."
"Yes, or as a pianist," responded the man, rather enviously. "His looks would crowd St. James's Hall even if he couldn't play a note. I never can understand how Cresswell manages to have such a complexion in London. He must take precious good care of himself."
"Saints generally do. You see, we live for time, they for eternity. We only have to keep the wrinkles at bay for a few years, but they want to look nice on the Judgment Day."
She was a little actress, and at this point she laughed to indicate that she had said something smart. As her laugh was dutifully echoed by the man who was paying for the dinner, she felt deliriously clever for the rest of the evening.
Presently Julian said:
"I went to the club this afternoon."
"Did you?"
"Yes. I wanted to have a talk with that fellow Marr."
Valentine suddenly put down the glass of champagne which he was in the act of raising to his lips.