“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.

“I tell you money’s a great thing,” the latter went on, producing a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it.  “I don’t know why I should have worried about this little business adventure.  I call it a first-class idea.  I’d like to be able to take taxies whenever I wanted them, and go round to the big restaurants and sit and watch the people.  Come to a music-hall one night, Mr. Waddington, won’t you?  I haven’t seen anything really funny for a long time.”

“I’m afraid I should like to,” Mr. Waddington began,—­“I mean I should be delighted.”

“What are you afraid about?” Burton asked quickly.