"Thirty-five years, sir."
Ayling looked at the old man in astonishment. "Do you remember me?" he asked.
The old waiter, schooled to remember at first glance if he remembered at all, looked afresh at Ayling. "I see so many faces, sir—I couldn't just at the moment say—"
"And I suppose," said Ayling, "you've brought me whisky-and-soda here, to this very chair, no end of times. What's your name?"
"Chedsey, sir."
"Seems familiar—" He shook his head. "You don't recall a Mr. Ayling—twenty-five or thirty years ago?"
"Ayling, sir? I recall there was a member of that name.... You're not Mr. Ayling, sir?"
"We're not very flattering, either of us, it seems. But then, privilege of the aged, I suppose."
"Beg pardon, sir. I'm sorry—I ought to remember you."
"We're wearing masks, Chedsey, you and I."