To witness what we have been;
And I am returned to my Walworth Bank,
And you to your margarine!
SEA CONSTABLES
A Tale of ’15
The head-waiter of the Carvoitz almost ran to meet Portson and his guests as they came up the steps from the palm-court where the string band plays.
“Not seen you since—oh, ever so long,” he began. “So glad to get your wire. Quite well—eh?”
“Fair to middling, Henri,” Portson shook hands with him. “You’re looking all right, too. Have you got us our table?”
Henri nodded towards a pink alcove, kept for mixed doubles, which discreetly commanded the main dining-room’s glitter and blaze.
“Good man!” said Portson. “Now, this is serious, Henri. We put ourselves unreservedly in your hands. We’re weather-beaten mariners—though we don’t look it, and we haven’t eaten a Christian meal in months. Have you thought of all that, Henri, mon ami?”