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 speech!” said Sam, pleased. “Was he very bad?” “Worst of the lot.” “Absolutely!” “That story about the Irishman.” “Foul!” “And all that rot about the dear old school.” “Ghastly!” “If you ask me,” said the first exquisite severely, “my opinion is that he was as tight as an owl.” “Stewed to the eyebrows,” said the second. “I watched him during dinner and he was mopping up the stuff like a vacuum cleaner.” There was a silence. “Well,” said the first exquisite uncomfortably, “we must be pushing on.” “Dashing off,” said the second exquisite. “Got to go to supper at the Angry Cheese.” “The where?” asked Sam. “Angry Cheese. New night-club in Panton Street. See you sometime, what?” “Oh, yes,” said Sam. Another silence was about to congeal, when a taxi crawled up and the two exquisites leaped joyously in. “Awful, a fellow going right under like that,” said the first. “Ghastly,” said the second. “Lucky we got away.” “Yes.” “He was shaping for a touch,” said the first exquisite. “Trembling on his lips,” said the second. Sam walked on. Although the Messrs. Bates and Tresidder had never been favourites of his, they belonged to what Mr. Braddock would have called--and, indeed, had called no fewer than eleven times in his speech that night--the dear old school; and the meeting with them had left him pleasantly stimulated. The feeling of being a _seigneur_ revisiting his estates after long absence grew as he threaded his way through the crowd. He eyed the passers-by in a jolly, Laughing Cavalier sort of way, wishing he knew them well enough to slap them on the back. And when he reached the corner of Wellington Street and came upon a disheveled vocalist singing mournfully in the gutter, he could not but feel it a personal affront that this sort of thing should be going on in his domain. He was conscious of a sensation of being individually responsible for this poor fellow’s reduced condition, and the situation seemed to him to call for largess.