“The menu, I have compose it myself,” Henri answered with the gravity of a high priest.
It was more than a year since Portson—of Portson, Peake and Ensell, Stock and Share Brokers—had drawn Henri’s attention to an apparently extinct Oil Company which, a little later, erupted profitably; and it may be that Henri prided himself on paying all debts in full.
The most recent foreign millionaire and the even more recent foreign actress at a table near the entrance clamoured for his attention while he convoyed the party to the pink alcove. With his own hands he turned out some befrilled electrics and lit four pale-rose candles.
“Bridal!” some one murmured. “Quite bridal!”
“So glad you like. There is nothing too good.” Henri slid away, and the four men sat down. They had the coarse-grained complexions of men who habitually did themselves well, and an air, too, of recent, red-eyed dissipation. Maddingham, the eldest, was a thick-set middle-aged presence, with crisped grizzled hair, of the type that one associates with Board Meetings. He limped slightly. Tegg, who followed him, blinking, was neat, small, and sandy, of unmistakable Wavy cut, but sheepish aspect. Winchmore, the youngest, was more on the lines of the conventional pre-war “nut,” but his eyes were sunk in his head and his hands black-nailed and roughened. Portson, their host, with Vandyke beard and a comfortable little stomach, beamed upon them as they settled to their oysters.
“That’s what I mean,” said the carrying voice of the foreign actress, whom Henri had just disabused of the idea that she had been promised the pink alcove. “They ain’t alive to the war yet. Now, what’s the matter with those four dubs yonder joining the British Army or—or doing something?”
“Who’s your friend?” Maddingham asked.
“I’ve forgotten her name for the minute,” Portson replied, “but she’s the latest thing in imported patriotic piece-goods. She sings ‘Sons of the Empire, Go Forward!’ at the Palemseum. It makes the aunties weep.”
“That’s Sidney Latter. She’s not half bad,” Tegg reached for the vinegar. “We ought to see her some night.”
“Yes. We’ve a lot of time for that sort of thing,” Maddingham grunted. “I’ll take your oysters, Portson, if you don’t want ’em.”