“_So_ glad you like. There is nothing too good.” Henri slid away, and the four men sat down. They had the coarse-grained complexions of men who habitually did themselves well, and an air, too, of recent, red-eyed dissipation. Maddingham, the eldest, was a thick-set middle-aged presence, with crisped grizzled hair, of the type that one associates with Board Meetings. He limped slightly. Tegg, who followed him, blinking, was neat, small, and sandy, of unmistakable Wavy cut, but sheepish aspect. Winchmore, the youngest, was more on the lines of the conventional pre-war “nut,” but his eyes were sunk in his head and his hands black-nailed and roughened. Portson, their host, with Vandyke beard and a comfortable little stomach, beamed upon them as they settled to their oysters. “_That’s_ what I mean,” said the carrying voice of the foreign actress, whom Henri had just disabused of the idea that she had been promised the pink alcove. “They ain’t _alive_ to the war yet. Now, what’s the matter with those four dubs yonder joining the British Army or--or _doing_ something?” “Who’s your friend?” Maddingham asked. “I’ve forgotten her name for the minute,” Portson replied, “but she’s the latest thing in imported patriotic piece-goods. She sings ‘Sons of the Empire, Go Forward!’ at the Palemseum. It makes the aunties weep.” “That’s Sidney Latter. She’s not half bad,” Tegg reached for the vinegar. “We ought to see her some night.” “Yes. We’ve a lot of time for that sort of thing,” Maddingham grunted. “I’ll take your oysters, Portson, if you don’t want ’em.” “Cheer up, Papa Maddingham! ’Soon be dead!” Winchmore suggested. Maddingham glared at him. “If I’d had you with me for _one_ week, Master Winchmore----” “Not the least use,” the boy retorted. “I’ve just been made a full-lootenant. I have indeed. I couldn’t reconcile it with my conscience to take _Etheldreda_ out any more as a plain sub. She’s too flat in the floor.” “Did you get those new washboards of yours fixed?” Tegg cut in. “Don’t talk shop already,” Portson protested. “This is Vesiga soup. I don’t know what he’s arranged in the way of drinks.” “Pol Roger ’04,” said the waiter. “Sound man, Henri,” said Winchmore. “But,” he eyed the waiter doubtfully, “I don’t quite like.... What’s your alleged nationality?” “’Henri’s nephew, monsieur,” the smiling waiter replied, and laid a gloved hand on the table. It creaked corkily at the wrist. “Bethisy-sur-Oise,” he explained. “My uncle he buy me _all_ the hand for Christmas. It is good to hold plates only.” “Oh! Sorry I spoke,” said Winchmore. “Monsieur is right. But my uncle is very careful, even with neutrals.” He poured the champagne. “Hold a minute,” Maddingham cried. “First toast of obligation: For what we are going to receive, thank God and the British Navy.” “Amen!” said the others with a nod towards Lieutenant Tegg, of the Royal Navy afloat, and, occasionally, of the Admiralty ashore.