Jim Maitland tilted his top-hat a little farther back on his head, and lit a cigarette. In front of him twinkled the myriad lights of London; behind the door he had just closed twinkled the few candles that had not yet guttered out. The Bright Young Things liked candles in empty bottles as their illuminations.
The hour was two of a summers morning; the scene - somewhere in Hampstead. And as he walked down the steps into the drive he pondered for the twentieth time on the asininity of man - himself in particular. Why on earth had he ever allowed that superlative idiot Percy to drag him to such a fool performance.
Percy was his cousin, a point he endeavoured unsuccessfully to forget. In fact the only thing to be said in favour of Percy's continued existence was that since he embodied in his person every known form of fatuitousness, he might be regarded as doing his duty for the rest of the family.
He had seen Percy afar off in the club before dinner, agus with a strangled grunt of terror had fled into the cloak-room ony to realise a moment later that he had delivered himself bound hand and foot into the enemy's hands. For the cloak-room was a cul-de-sac, and already a strange bleating cry could be heard outside the entrance. Percy had spotted him, and reliquishing the idea of burying himself in the dirty towel basket he prepared to meet his fate.
"Jim, my dear friend and relative, you are the very bird I want. When did you return to the village?"
"Hullo! Percy," he remarked. "I hoped you hadn't seen me. Are you stil as impossibly awful as you were when I last met you?"
"Worse, far worse, old lad. We dine together - what?"
Another shudder shook him; short of physical violence all hope was gone. He was in the clutches of this throw back to the tail period.
"But for the fact that I adore your dear mother nothing would induce me to dine anywhere near you," he answered. "As it is I happen to be free, so I will."
"Spendid. And afterwards I shall take you to a gathering of the chaps."
"What chaps?"
"You'll love them, old fruit. We have one once a month. Starts about midnight. Just a rag, don't you know. We're meeting this time in a cellar up in Hampstead. Beer and bones. Or perhaps scrambled eggs. Or even kippers. Except that kippers whiff a bit in a cellar, don't they?"