“I’ve lived in a country where unless you guess what the other fellow is thinking of, you may be led astray by what he says. It’s a sort of game.” He let the long ash of his cigar fall into his coffee-cup, and, remembering Quong Ho, added, with his queer honesty: “I don’t pretend to be an adept, as you will gather from the tale which I propose to relate. Perhaps arm-chairs in a corner of the lounge might be more comfortable.”
They rose. The heavily tipped waiter sprang to aid Godfrey with his crutches. The boy paused. Baltazar waved him courteously on.
“Go ahead.”
On their way out they passed by a round table at which a large party were assembled. Suddenly a young officer sprang up and laid a hand on Godfrey’s shoulder.
“Hallo! Hallo, dear old chap! It’s years since I’ve seen you.”
“Not since we’ve been in uniform.”
“By Jove, that’s true!” He pointed to the M.C. ribbon. “Splendid, old chap, glorious!”
“Glory all right,” laughed Godfrey, “but,” pointing downwards, “sic transit——”
“Oh, hell!” said the other.
“Kinnaird,” said Godfrey, “let me introduce you to my father.”