"By Jove, it's a treat to taste a real drink again!" he said, smacking his lips over my effort. "The English are a fine people, but they don't know much about mixing liquors."
He put down his glass, and, lighting a couple of cigarettes, we strolled towards one of the French widows, which was partly open.
"Still, there are compensations," I said, looking out into the garden. "An evening like this makes up for a lot of indifferent cocktails."
He leaned back against the lintel and gazed deliberately round the sky—a roof of cloudless blue, tinged towards the west with the saffron after-glow of a perfect sunset.
"Yes," he admitted, "it has been wonderful weather the last few days, but you can take my word we shall have to pay for it. Unless the wind gets up we shall have a sea fog that will probably hang around for a week. It's always the way here, when you get this sort of thing in April."
I was about to make some reply when an unexpected voice behind suddenly broke into our conversation.
"Dinner's ready," it announced.
We both turned round abruptly, to find the sombre figure of Bascomb silhouetted in the doorway.
"Come on in," I said, addressing myself to Manning. "However black the future is, we can at least eat and drink."
I conducted him across the hall to the dining-room, which looked very snug and comfortable in the pleasant light of two or three softly shaded candles.