There followed one of those awkward silences which so often occur at these meetings of old schoolmates. The two exquisites were wondering dismally when the inevitable touch would come, and Sam had just recollected that these were two blighters whom, when in statu pupillari, he had particularly disliked. Nevertheless, etiquette demanded that a certain modicum of conversation be made.

“What have you been doing with yourselves?” asked Sam. “You look very festive.”

“Been dining,” said the first exquisite.

“Old Wrykynian dinner,” said the second.

“Oh, yes, of course. It always was at this time of year, wasn’t it? Lots of the lads there, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Good dinner?”

“Goodish,” said the first exquisite.

“Not baddish,” said the second.

“Rotten speeches, though.”

“Awful!”

“Can’t think where they dig these blokes up.”

“No.”

“That man Braddock.”

“Frightful.”

“Don’t tell me the old Bradder actually made a{48} speech!” said Sam, pleased. “Was he very bad?”

{48}

“Worst of the lot.”

“Absolutely!”

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