“Why, Monty!” he cried delightedly. For, yes, it was Monty Wytham, of all people! The fastest of the Mongoons! “You’re dining here, Gav?” asked the other with easy calm. “Why, of course, if you are.” “I always dine here.” Monty spoke with a certain solemnity. “I’d heard that, Monty, but I didn’t know whether----” “No,” smiled Monty, a little sadly. “People never _will_ believe the worst of me. That’s my tragedy, Gav.” “And they never believe the best of me,” said Gaveston. “That’s mine, you know.” “You’ll go down well in the Café, Gav. Your wit is so Gyp-like, _mon brave_.” “Well, oughtn’t we to dine together?” Gav asked. “Perhaps we ought: it seems an ideal combination somehow. We might work out a synthetic creed of the Best and the Worst,” he added over his shoulder, turning to lead the way towards the dining tables at the further end of the room. “It would pass the evening, at any rate.” “And it might amuse Raoul,” said Monty, rather tentatively. “Might it?” “Possibly. He needs amusing, especially just now, you know. But I forgot--you don’t know Raoul?” “Not from Wallace, is he?” “Heavens, no!” and Monty smiled. “Oh, he’s--well, I’ve known him about the smoke-room for years back.” Gaveston could scarcely have borne the tone of superiority in his friend’s voice had these words been uttered in less unfamiliar surroundings. But here Monty was evidently a _par excellence habitué_, and in the frankly Bohemian atmosphere, Gaveston was ready to make allowances. “I must introduce you then.” They had come to a corner table where a plump young man of twenty-two or twenty-three was seated, poring over the gilt-edged price-list.[10] As the pair stopped in front of him, he slowly raised his crisp, curly hair, and peered over the top of the card with the characteristic black beady eyes of a Frenchman. [10] Mr. Budd has employed an expressive anglicization of the customary but hackneyed “menu.” (LIT. EXEC.) “An Oxford friend of mine, Raoul,” said Wytham. “Mr. Gaveston ffoulis. Monsieur Raoul du Val.…” A queer prescience made Gaveston refrain from proffering his hand. He only bowed to the rising figure of Monty’s friend. Somehow that name seemed familiar … somehow.… Where could he have heard it? Had Uncle Wilkie got a new story? Or what was it? They sat down. A waiter hovered expectant. The _maître d’hôtel_ stood near by watching them, stroking his beard in his nervousness. Gav’s personality was compelling in the most unlikely surroundings. “This is my friend’s first dinner here, Raoul,” said Monty. “So I’d better leave it to you. You’re so good at ordering a dinner, you know.” And Gaveston remembered. Of course! Of course! Du Val! He saw again his mother’s eyelids fluttering under the lamps of the flitting Bayswater streets as the Rolls Royce purred through the foggy December morning only a few weeks ago. Poor Mums!