"Not a bit of it!" Burton interrupted, savagely. "One must be a little human now and then. By Jove, old man, there are some ties, if you like! I always did think a yellow one would suit me." Mr. Waddington pressed him gently along. "I am not sure," he muttered, "that we are quite in the mood to buy ties. I want to ask you a question, Burton." "Go ahead." "You were telling me about this wonderful scheme of your friend the professor's, to make--Menatogen, I think you said. Did you part with both your beans?" "Both," Burton replied, almost fiercely. "But I've another fortnight or so yet. It can't come before--it shan't!" "You expect, I suppose, to make a great deal of money?" Mr. Waddington continued. "We shall make piles," Burton declared. "I have had a large sum already for the beans. My pockets are full of money. Queer how light-hearted it makes you feel to have plenty of money. It's a dull world, you know, after all, and we are dull fellows. Think what one could do, now, with some of the notes I have in my pocket! Hire a motor-car, go to some bright place like the _Metropole_ at Brighton--a bright, cheerful, sociable place, I mean, where people who look interesting aren't above talking to you. And then a little dinner, and perhaps a music-hall afterwards, and some supper, and plenty to eat and drink--" "Burton!" Mr. Waddington gasped. "Stop! Stop at once!" "Why the dickens should I stop?" Burton demanded. Mr. Waddington was looking shocked and pained. "You don't mean to tell me," he exclaimed, "that this is your idea of a good time? That you would go to a hotel like the _Metropole_ and mix with the people whom you might meet there, and eat and drink too much, and call it enjoyment? Burton, what has come to you?" Burton was looking a little sullen. "It's all very well," he grumbled. "We're too jolly careful of ourselves. We don't get much fun. Here's your poky little restaurant. Let's see what it looks like inside." They entered, and a _maitre d'hotel_ came hurrying to meet them. Burton, however, shook his head. "This place is no good, Waddington," he decided. "Only about half-a-dozen stodgy old people here, no music, and nothing to look at. Let's go where there's some life. I'll take you. My lunch. Come along." Mr. Waddington protested but faintly. He murmured a word of apology to the _maitre d'hotel_, whom he knew, but Burton had already gone on ahead and was whistling for a taxi. With a groan, Mr. Waddington noticed that his hat had slipped a little on one side. There was a distinct return of his rakish manner. "The _Milan!_" Burton ordered. "Get along as quick as you can. We are hungry." The two men sat side by side in the taxicab. Mr. Waddington watched his companion in half-pained eagerness. Burton certainly was looking much more alert than earlier in the morning.