It was the memorable Tuesday dinner, given in the first place for Dacre Wynne, as a sort of send off before he left for Cairo.  In the second Merriton intended to break it gently to the other chaps that he was shortly to become a Benedict.

Lester Stark and Tony West, very loyal and proven friends of Nigel Merriton, had arrived the evening before.  Dacre Wynne was coming down by the seven o’clock train, Dicky Fordyce, Reginald Lefroy—­both fellow officers of Merriton’s regiment, and home on leave from India—­and mild old Dr. Bartholomew, whom everyone respected and few did not love, and who was in attendance at most of the bachelor spreads in London and out of it, as being a dry old body with a wit as fine as a rapier-thrust, and a fund of delicate, subtle humour, made up the little party.

The solemn front door bell of Merriton Towers clanged, and Borkins, very pompous and elegant, flung wide the door.  Merriton saw Wynne’s big, broad-shouldered figure swathed in the black evening cloak which he affected upon such occasions, and which became him mightily, and with an opera hat set at the correct angle upon his closely-clipped dark hair, step into the lighted hallway, and begin taking off his gloves.

Tony West’s raspy voice chimed out a welcome, as Merriton went forward, his hand outstretched.

“Hello, old man!” said Tony.  “How goes it?  Lookin’ a bit white about the gills, aren’t you, eh?...  Whew!  Merriton, old chap, that’s my ribs, if you don’t mind.  I’ve no penchant for your bayonet-like elbow to go prodding into ’em!”

Merriton raised an eyebrow, frowned heavily, and by every other method under the sun tried to make it plain to West that the topic was taboo.  Wherefore West raised his eyebrows, began to make a hasty exclamation, thought better of it, and then clapping his hand over his mouth broke into whistling the latest jazz tune, as though he had completely extricated both feet from the unfortunate mire he had planted them in—­but with very little success.

Wynne was a frowning Hercules as he entered the pleasant smoke-filled room.  Merriton’s arm lay upon his sleeve, and he endured because he had to—­that was all.

“Hello!” he said, to Lester Stark’s rather half-hearted greeting—­Lester Stark never had liked Dacre Wynne and they both knew it.  “You here as well?  Merriton’s giving me a send-off and no mistake.  Gad! you chaps will be envying me this time next week, I’ll swear!  Out on the briny for a decently long trip; plenty of pretty women—­on which I’m bankin’ of course”—­he gave Merriton a sudden, searching look, “and not a care in the world.  And the white lights of Cairo starin’ at me across the water.  Some picture, isn’t it?”

“You may keep it!” said Tony West with a shudder.  “When you’ve smelled Cairo, Wynne, old boy, you’ll come skulkin’ home with your tail between your legs.  A ‘rose by any other name would smell as sweet,’ but Cairo—­parts of it mind you—­well, Cairo’s the stinkin’st rose I ever put my nose into, that’s all!”