Godfrey laughed. Youth that has drunk most of a bottle of perfect champagne can afford to be indulgent.
“That has quite an Oriental flavour,” said he.
“A blend,” smiled Baltazar.
The waiter, previously summoned, brought the bill. Godfrey, shrewd observer, noted with gratification that his father merely glanced at the total, and waved away the waiter with payment and tip all in the fraction of a second. But a little while ago he had lunched, grudgingly dutiful, with his uncle, Sir Richard Woodcott, who, when the bill was presented, had ticked off the items with a gold pencil, comparing the prices with the bill of fare, and had sent for the manager to protest a charge for two portions of potatoes when only one was consumed, he being forbidden potatoes by his medical man. He had raised his voice and made a clatter, and neighbouring parties had smiled derisively and Godfrey had reddened and glowered and wished either that the earth would swallow him up or that hell-fire would engulf his millionaire uncle and trustee.
“I see now, sir,” said he, “why I’m always broke to the world.”
Baltazar flashed on him. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t look at my bills either,” said he.
Baltazar bent his keen gaze on his son. The remark had some significance. At first he was puzzled. Then the solution flashed on him.
“You’re thinking of that damned Woodcott crowd.”
Godfrey gasped. “How on earth do you know that?”