“What’s his name?”
“Well, he’s not worth naming. He’s what you call in this country a cad.”
“We don’t patronize cads in Garrick Street, Covent Garden,” said Percival, somewhat coldly.
“Well, you’ve got one full-blossomed cad amongst you at all events—what we would call in my country a shoneen.”
“Of course, as there’s a black sheep in every flock, there’s a shady man in every club. May I ask who this shoneen is?”
Charley Devereux was on the point of uttering the two words “Eugene Percival” when Lindsay burst in.
“I say, you two fellows, you’re snubbing my cellar most awfully. You remind me of two pashas whom I met at a dinner-party at Constantinople, who—”
“Speaking of Constantinople,” interrupted the member of Parliament, “Sir Stafford Northcote on Tuesday night—” commencing a sing-song, Dryasdust House of Commons story which lasted until coffee was announced.
As the gentlemen were ascending the stairs Percival observed to Devereux:
“I took a countrywoman of yours down to dinner.”