“I accept your cordial invitation,” Wingate said, mixing himself a whisky and soda.  “At what time does the fight commence?”

“Forthwith,” Kendrick announced.  “We sally forth from here to the Arcadian Rooms, situated in this building.  Afterwards we make merry.  John, my boy,” he went on, “you have the air of a man who has drunk deep already to-night of the waters of happiness.  Exactly where did you dine?”

“In Utopia,” Wingate answered.  “According to you, I am to sup in fairyland.”

“But breakfast,” the Honourable Jimmy put in,—­“a man ought to be dashed careful where he breakfasts.  A man is known by his breakfast companions, what?”

“Young fellow,” Wingate asked, “where is Sarah?”

“Have no fear,” was the blissful reply.  “Sarah is coming to the supper.  She’s filling her old ’bus up with peaches from the Gaiety.  Not being allowed to sit inside with any of them, I was sent on ahead.”

“You dog!” Maurice White exclaimed.

“Dog yourself,” was the prompt retort.  “Opportunity is a fine thing.  Sometimes I have a gruesome fear that Sarah does not altogether trust me.”

Kendrick, who had been straightening his tie before the glass, now swung around.

“This way to the lift, boys,” he said.  “Time we put in an appearance.”

The reception room of the Arcadian suite was already fairly well crowded.  Wingate shook hands with his host, a cheery, theatrical-loving soul, and was presented to many other people.  Where he was not introduced he found a pleasing absence of formality, which facilitated conversation and rapidly widened his circle of acquaintances.  Kendrick came over and slapped him on the back.

“Wingate, my lad,” he exclaimed, “you’re going some!  You’re the bright boy of the party.  Whom are you taking into supper?”

“Me!” said a rather shrill but not unmusical voice from Wingate’s side.  “Introduce us, please, Mr. Kendrick.  We have been making furtive conversation for the last five minutes.”

“It is a great occasion,” Kendrick declared.  “I present Mr. John Wingate, America’s greatest financier, most successful soldier, and absolutely inevitable President, to Miss Flossie Lane, England’s greatest musical comedy artist.”

Miss Lane grabbed Wingate’s arm.

“Let’s go in to supper,” she suggested.  “All the best places will be taken if we don’t hurry.”

“One word,” Kendrick begged, relapsing for a moment into his ordinary manner as he touched Wingate on the shoulder.  “Dredlinton is here, rather drunk and very quarrelsome.  I heard him telling some one about having found you dining alone with his wife to-night.  Phipps was listening.  Look at him, as black as a thundercloud!  Keep your head if Dredlinton gets troublesome.”