They had that dinner together. It was quite the dinner of a rich man. It was also the dinner of one who loved to look upon the winecup.
After dinner Fred looked at his watch. “Half-past nine. I say, Chris, about this time we used to sally forth. You remember?”
“I believe I do remember. I am now so respectable that I cannot allow myself to remember.”
“There was the Holborn Casino and the Argyll for a little dance: the Judge and Jury, Evans’s, and the Coalhole for supper and a sing-song: Caldwell’s to take a shop-girl for a quiet dance: Cremorne——”
“My dear Fred, these are old stories. All these things have gone. The Holborn and the Argyll are restaurants, Cremorne is built over, Evans’s is dead and gone: the Judge and Jury business wouldn’t be tolerated now.”
“What do the boys do now?”
“How should I know? They amuse themselves somehow. But it’s no concern of mine, or of yours. You are no longer a boy, Fred.”
“Hang it! What am I to do with myself in the evenings? I suppose I can go and look on if I can’t cut in any more?”
“No; you mustn’t even look on. Leave the boys to themselves. Join a club and sit by yourself in the smoking-room all the evening. That’s the amusement for you.”
“I suppose I can go to the theatre—if that’s all?”