"They would," said Peter; "besides, that doesn't appeal to me now. I'm getting too old, or else my tastes have become depraved."
The one-horse cab stopped with a jerk. "Hop out," said Peter. He settled the score, and the two of them entered the hotel and passed through into the private bar.
"What is it to be?" demanded Pennell.
"Cocktails to-day, old son," said Peter; "I want bucking up. What do you say to martinis?"
The other agreed, and they moved over to the bar. A monstrously fat woman stood behind it, like some bloated spider, and a thin, weedy-looking girl assisted her. A couple of men were already there. It was too early for official drinks, but the Bretagne knew no law.
They ordered their drinks, and stood there while madame compounded them and put in the cherries. Another man came in, and Peter recognised the Australian Ferrars, whom he had met before. He introduced Pennell and called for another martini.
"So you frequent this poison-shop, do you?" said Ferrars.
"Not much," laughed Peter, "but it's convenient."
"It is, and it's a good sign when a man like you wants a drink. I'd sooner listen to your sermons any day than some chaps' I know."
"Subject barred here," said Pennell. "But here's the very best to you,
Graham, for all that."