“It would seem, then, that I must have revelled a trifle whole-heartedly last night. I was possibly a little blotto. Not whiffled, perhaps, but indisputably blotto. Did I make much noise coming in?” 

 “No, sir. You were very quiet.” 

 “Ah! A dashed bad sign!” 

 Freddie moved to the table, and poured himself a cup of coffee. 

 “The cream-jug is to your right, sir,” said the helpful Parker. 

 “Let it remain there. Café noir for me this morning. As noir as it can jolly well stick!” Freddie retired to the fireplace and sipped delicately. “As far as I can remember, it was Ronny Devereux’ birthday or something …” 

 “Mr Martyn’s, I think you said, sir.” 

 “That’s right. Algy Martyn’s birthday, and Ronny and I were the guests. It all comes back to me. I wanted Derek to roll along and join the festivities—he’s never met Ronny—but he gave it a miss. Quite right! A chap in his position has responsibilities. Member of Parliament and all that. Besides,” said Freddie earnestly, driving home the point with a wave of his spoon, “he’s engaged to be married. You must remember that, Parker!” 

 “I will endeavor to, sir.” 

 “Sometimes,” said Freddie dreamily, “I wish I were engaged to be married. Sometimes I wish I had some sweet girl to watch over me and … No, I don’t, by Jove! It would give me the utter pip! Is Sir Derek up yet, Parker?” 

 “Getting up, sir.” 

 “See that everything is all right, will you? I mean as regards the foodstuffs and what not. I want him to make a good breakfast. He’s got to meet his mother this morning at Charing Cross. She’s legging it back from the Riviera.” 

 “Indeed, sir?” 

 Freddie shook his head. 

 “You wouldn’t speak in that light, careless tone if you knew her! Well, you’ll see her tonight. She’s coming here to dinner.” 

 “Yes, sir.” 

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