I protested, somewhat lamely, that I most certainly was.
"Gratitude, it seems," said he, "may express itself in the most odd manner."
"Mine," I replied stiffly, "will express itself in the customary letter."
"What, another?" he asked, adding, after a pause, "Do you refer to the note which your solicitors will write me forthwith and charge me three-and-sixpence for?"
I thought deeply but was baffled. "It is full early in the morning for the cryptic and abstruse," I said.
Wreford sighed as he slowly folded up his letter and put it in its envelope. "It is the one moment in the week," he explained, "when the very worst must be expected."
I begged him to elucidate the position.
"Suppose," said he, "you had invited a man to stay with you for the week-end, had motored him down from town on the Friday night and given him dinner and a nice big bed, and on Saturday more meals and more bed, and on Sunday still more meals and still more bed, and on the Monday morning a nice yellow-and-white poached egg all to himself."
"I quite appreciate all that," said I.
"And suppose, while he was still sitting at your table and working his way through the bit of toast where the egg once sat, you received a letter from him."