The old fellow chuckled.
"Oh, what do you think is the latest? My young lordship told me in future I was to run round and round the White Tower from nine to five. For the duration of the war, he says. What do you think of that? That's what we get for joining up. Serving our country. Why, it's a joke. What is it, dear?" He listened attentively to his little friend's whisper. "She wants to know if you are going to stand treat to your little friend," he said to Mr. Spokesly.
Mr. Spokesly's little friend, with her emaciated limbs, lemon-coloured French boots, and infuriating ringlets, was smiling in what was supposed to be irresistible coyness. The waiter was already sweeping away the bottle and glasses, which were full and which would be carefully decanted, re-bottled and served up to the old lieutenant the following evening.
"Oh, all right. But I can't stay long. I have to get aboard, you know."
"He can't go till you get there," argued his friend.
"Ah, but I've a special reason for wanting to be on board to-night."
"Well, here's luck to the voyage."
"Good luck," said the women, touching the edge of the glasses with their lips and setting them down again.
"Feefty francs," said the waiter, glaring over a black moustache at the fistful of money Mr. Spokesly drew from a trouser pocket.
The pianist crashed out some tremendous chords. The old lieutenant's little friend whispered in his ear.