As it was too crowded to dance and too early to sup, we took a couple of arm-chairs and ordered coffee. Overheated defaulters joined us from time to time, and Crabtree favoured us with his presence long enough to inquire: (i) how much I thought this touch was costing the old boy, (ii) what he would cut up for, (iii) what sort of place Crowley Court was, and (iv) whether I thought "The Trade" was likely to buck up at all.
"Who is your objectionable fat friend?" Bertrand asked when we were alone again.
"Objectionable—yes. Fat—yes. But no friend," I answered. "His name is Crabtree, and you are the only man in London whom he has not yet told that he is related to the intermittently bankrupt and always disreputable Lord Beaumorris."
"And he's running after this Dainton girl?"
"It's healthy exercise," I said, "and he hasn't run very far as yet."
"Well, well!" He sighed. "Marriage is a race in which the bookmaker invariably bolts with the money."
"What you want is some supper," I said.
"No, I want to watch the people a bit more. Who's the Greek god who just went by?"
"The man who waved?"
"Yes. Face all eyes."