“That’s all right, you dear old image. When you get your Fellowship, I’ll say the same to you.”
He cut a hunk from a cake on the table and poured out a whisky and soda.
“My dear boy,” cried Baltazar, darting to the bell, “haven’t you lunched? You must have a proper meal.”
Godfrey restrained him. No. He hadn’t time. He must leave London that afternoon, for a day or two, and the next two or three hours would be a mad rush. A shade of disappointment passed over Baltazar’s face.
“I was hoping we might have a little dinner to-night to celebrate your appointment—just ourselves, with Marcelle—and Lady Edna, if she could come.”
A smile flickered round Godfrey’s lips.
“Dreadfully sorry, sir,” said he. “I’m not my own master. Anyhow, I know Lady Edna’s engaged. But my last night—yes, if you will. I’d love it.”
As soon as he had bolted food and drink, he rushed out. He must throw some things into a bag, said he. Presently he returned and took hurried leave. Baltazar gripped him by the hand and God-blessed him. At the door Godfrey nodded to Quong Ho.
“Just a word, old chap.”
Quong Ho followed him into the hall.