Mr American

Mr Franklin was both delighted and doubtful. “Are these as good as we’d get at the fashionable shops?”

“Better,” said Samson briskly. “Most gentlemen can’t buy off the peg, sir, and wouldn’t if they could, because they feel bound to patronise the fashionable tailors. Not necessary, sir. Zeke can cut with any man in London – you’ll have to shorten the sleeves on the Norfolk, Zeke, and bring in the waist on the morning coats. Have them all round at the Waldorf by six, mind. Now, sir, spats, top hats, cane, great-coat, opera cloak, caps, everyday hat – not a bowler for you, sir, I think. You’ll feel more at home in something more wideawake, I dare say, like Mr Andrew Lang. Very stylish, the broad brim, but only for travellers and literary men.”

“And which am I?” wondered Mr Franklin aloud, as he surveyed the growing stack of clothing on Zeke’s table with some misgivings. Samson, without a flicker of a smile, replied gravely: “I’m sure you enjoy good literature very much, sir. Plain grey in the spats, I think.”

The fact was, Mr Franklin was half-regretting his recruitment of an expert in the matter of clothing. It had been an impulse – since he could afford the best, why not make sure that the best was what he got? But he had thought of what, to him, was a full outfit – a couple of suits, coat, hat, and boots, and here he was being kitted out with an opulence that would have embarrassed a railroad tycoon. The trouble was that every purchase seemed to call for some undreamed-of-accessories; it wasn’t the expense he minded, so much as the extravagance – but there was nothing to be done about it now. Piker was a word that Mr Franklin had been brought up to despise; besides, this Samson undoubtedly knew his business, and it would have been a shame to spoil his fun.

In fact, Samson was enjoying himself immensely, in his restrained way. He had never had the opportunity, despite his great experience, of outfitting a gentleman entire before, and this one was a pleasure to equip. Too long and lean for true elegance, perhaps, but splendid shoulders, trim waist, and excellent bearing: Samson the soldier liked a man to look like a man, and not a tailor’s dummy, and he went to work accordingly, undeterred by the growing unease which he sensed in Mr Franklin’s manner. He could guess its source, and wisely did not let it trouble him. His professional pride apart, he liked this big American with his frontier face and diffident manner, and he was going to see him right. So when the last garment had been bought, he bore Mr Franklin off to Drews of Piccadilly for a full set of oxhide luggage, and finally to a Bond Street jewellers for a rolled gold cigarette case, silver and diamond links and studs, and the thinnest of platinum watch-chains set with tiny pearls. By this time Mr Franklin was totally silent; never mind, thought Samson, you’re the best-dressed man in London this minute – or will be when you’ve put them on. And having weighed his man up precisely, he was not in the least surprised, as they drove back to Aldwych in a four-wheeler loaded with packages, when Mr Franklin broke the silence by saying suddenly:

“I imagine you think I’m all kinds of fool – buying all this sort of stuff?”

Samson looked straight to his front. “I’d think you would be ill-advised to continue in your present garments, sir,” he said, and Mr Franklin digested this.

“You know what I mean, Samson. It isn’t – well, it isn’t my style, and you know it. Is it, now?”

Samson turned to look at him, his bright blue eyes without expression. “It’s as much your style as anybody’s, sir. The clothes you’ve bought look extremely well on you. And that’s a professional opinion, sir.”

“Well,” said Mr Franklin, looking out at the bustling Aldwych traffic, “I guess that’s why I asked you along.”

“I’m glad you did, sir. It’s been a pleasure.” He preceded Mr Franklin from the cab at the Waldorf, and when they were both on the pavement he added: “You’ll be dining out this evening, sir. A theatre, perhaps. I’ll look back in a couple of hours and help you dress. Many gentlemen dress themselves, of course, but with new clothes, sir, it’s advisable to have a second opinion, I always think, in case of any last-minute adjustments, sir.”

He knew perfectly well that Mr Franklin had not given a thought to dining out, let alone the theatre; a sandwich in his room while he glowered uneasily at his new-bought finery would be more like it. Samson was not going to permit that if he could help it; why this quiet American had engaged him in the first place, and allowed Samson to provide him with the trappings of the fashionable metropolis, he did not bother to speculate, but since he had, Samson’s professional ethic demanded that the job be seen through. So having refreshed himself with a pie and a pint of beer at a St Clement’s tavern, he returned to the Waldorf at seven prompt and proceeded to attire his client for the evening.

Mr Franklin submitted with a good-natured tolerance behind which there obviously lay a deal of self-consciousness; the statutory uniform of dress tails with white tie and weskit he bore without too much unease, but at the cloak, hat and cane he rebelled.

“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t need them. I don’t need a stick.”

“For the theatre, sir –”

“Who says I’m going to the theatre? I could go in my street clothes, couldn’t I?”

Samson’s raised brows suggested that he could go in a diving suit if he wished, but he merely said:

“Then for dining out, sir …”

“I don’t have to dine out, either. I can get supper downstairs.”

“Of course, sir.” Samson allowed a moment of neutral silence while Mr Franklin glowered at his patent-leather shoes. “Shall I return your evening dress to the wardrobe, sir?”

Mr Franklin regarded him steadily, prepared to speak, changed his mind, breathed through his nose, and finally squared his shoulders, Sydney Carton leaving the tumbril.

“No,” he said heavily. “Let’s put the damned things on.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Samson. “The cane, sir – and the cloak. If it feels more comfortable, why not carry the hat, sir?” It sounded like a concession; in fact he was a trifle uneasy about the length of his client’s hair. He stepped back, contemplating his handiwork, mentally comparing the tweeded colonial of the afternoon with the imposing and even elegant gentleman who now confronted him; quite striking, really, with that bronzed face, and the slightly raffish hair and moustache seemed to enhance the splendour of his dress. Samson made a mental note to recommend a barber of his acquaintance. “Very passable, sir,” he said, and indicated the pier glass.

Mr Franklin looked, stared, and said softly: “I’ll be damned.” He was not a vain man, Samson knew, but he stood frowning at his image for a full minute before adding: “You tricked me into this, you know. I didn’t exactly … oh, well, never mind.” He turned to the dressing table, took up his money belt, and carefully counted out thirty sovereigns. “I’m obliged to you, Samson. You’ve given me more than I bargained for, and I’m not sure it isn’t more than I care for. But I asked for it, I guess.” He handed over the coins.

“Thank you very much indeed, sir.” Samson flicked an invisible speck of dust from the lapel. “I have dressed several gentlemen in their first evening attire, sir. Invariably they were reluctant to put it on – but not nearly so reluctant as they were later to take it off. It grows on one, sir.” He paused. “Did I understand, sir, from what Mr Pride said, that it is not your intention to engage an attendant?”

Mr Franklin had been sneaking another glance at the long mirror. “How’s that? No – no, I’m not.”

“I quite understand, sir. However, if you should contemplate such a course in the future, sir, I should be happy to be considered. If you thought me suitable, sir, of course.”

Mr Franklin looked sharply to see if he was being mocked, and saw he was not. “I’ll be damned!” he said again, and fingered his moustache thoughtfully. “Look – Samson. You don’t know the first thing about me – except,” and he jerked his thumb at the mirror in a gesture which made Samson wince, “except that the party there is a fraud, by your lights. Now – isn’t that so?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Samson evenly. “And, if you’ll pardon the liberty, I don’t think you know either. The cloak just a trifle back off the right shoulder, sir. Very good. I’ve known frauds, sir, and gentlemen, and some that were both, and some that were neither. I’ve even known some Americans. Will there be anything else, sir? Then if I might suggest, sir, Monico’s is very pleasant for dinner; if you were to ask for Maurice, and mention my name – Thomas Samson, sir, he would see you had a good table. Or the Cavendish, in Jermyn Street; Miss Lewis knows me, and it’s quieter.” He had taken up his own hat and coat. “I hope you have a pleasant evening, sir. Good night, sir.”

Mr Franklin pondered him thoughtfully, and then held out his hand. Samson shook it, let himself out quickly and efficiently, and left Mr Franklin frowning at his own reflection.

4

The great theatrical attraction of London in that week, or in that autumn for that matter, was undoubtedly The Whip, a drama of racing and high society which in addition to a highly sensational plot also offered the astonishing spectacles of a rail crash, a pack of hounds on stage, and a thrilling horse race. Unfortunately, as the Waldorf’s porter informed Mr Franklin, it had been booked out for weeks ahead; however, he was able to provide a synopsis from an evening paper of alternative entertainments, and Mr Franklin, having concluded that since Samson had decked him out for the theatre, he might as well go, studied it as his hansom drove west along the Strand.

To his disappointment, there was no Shakespeare available. The only performance of his father’s favourite author he had ever seen had been under canvas at the Tonopah diggings, when a travelling production of Hamlet had been broken up by a crowd of miners outraged at the prince’s cavalier treatment of Ophelia. He would have liked to see Falstaff in the flesh, for his father’s sake; the alternatives were not immediately inviting. Mrs Patrick Campbell in False Gods, and a new play badly entitled Smith, by Mr Somerset Maugham, did not sound interesting; he hesitated over an Arabian Nights comedy, The Brass Bottle, by F. Anstey, passed on to Making a Gentleman, the story of a retired pickle-maker aspiring to a place in society, decided it was a thought too close to home for comfort, and considered The Great Divide, a drama about three men in the backwoods gambling for possession of a girl. Understandably, it did not attract him, and he was left to choose between Miss Lily Elsie in The Dollar Princess, and a variety bill at the Oxford.

On the cab driver’s recommendation he settled for the latter, and sat gravely in the middle of an uproarious audience who revelled in the drolleries of a sad-looking man in a bowler hat called George Robey; Mr Franklin found the accent and topicalities equally confusing. The popularity of the other star attraction on the bill he found much easier to understand; the fish-netted thighs and voluptuous figure of Miss Marie Lloyd, swaying suggestively across the stage, brought uproar and a chorus of whistles which almost drowned out her stentorian rendering of “Yip-aye-addy-aye-ai”. She followed it with a ballad whose unabashed ribaldry was rapturously received; Mr Franklin, although not shocked, was mildly surprised that London should accept gleefully innuendoes which would have been regarded as out of place in some saloons he had known. What interested him most, however, was the tumultuous enthusiasm which greeted the rendering of a song, apparently an old favourite, anent the German Emperor and his naval ambitions:

His friends assert he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

But he’s building ships of war

What does he want ’em for?

They’ll all be ours by and by!

It was by two young writers unknown to Mr Franklin, an American named Kern and an Englishman called Wodehouse; hearing the chorus taken up by the audience with patriotic abandon, he recalled the dire prophecies of his companion of the railway train.

When the show had thundered to its brassy finale, Mr Franklin made his way to the theatre steps and paused among the dispersing, high-spirited audience, wondering, for the first time since he had come to England, what he should do next. He had spent a busy day; he had, thanks to Samson, experienced a London theatre, and been slightly surfeited by brilliant lights, heady, swinging music, and half-understood jokes and choruses; now he had time on his hands. As he hesitated on the steps, he felt perhaps just a touch of what every stranger to London, in any age, must feel: that consciousness of being alone in the multitude. It did not trouble him; he was only a little tired, but content, and presently he would feel hungry. Until then, he would walk and take in the sights, and at that he set off along the pavement, hat and cane in one hand, stepping briskly – to the chagrin of several bright-eyed and exotically-dressed ladies skirmishing in the foyer, who had simultaneously noted his diamond and silver studs, his hesitation, and his solitary condition, and had been sauntering purposefully towards him from various directions. Disappointed, they wheeled away gracefully like high-heeled, feathered galleons, while Mr Franklin, unaware of his escape, walked on where his feet led him, taking in the sights and sounds and wondering vaguely where he was, exactly.

It seemed to him, as he walked, that this section of London was one vast theatre – everywhere there were canopies with their myriad electric bulbs, names in lights, huge posters, and audiences escaping into the open air, laughing and surging out in quest of cabs and taxis. To escape the crowds, he turned into a less-congested side street, and found himself confronting a stout little old woman, surrounded by flower baskets, soliciting his custom.

“Posy fer the lady, sir. Boo-kays an’ posies. W’ite ’eather fer luck, sir. Buy a posy.”

Instinctively he reached for a coin, smiling; he did not want flowers, but he was in that relaxed, easy state which is easily imposed on. As it happened, the coin he held out was a florin, and before he knew it he was grasping a massive bunch of blooms, and the grateful vendor was calling down luck, blessings, and good health on his head. He was on the point of suggesting an exchange for something smaller, but another customer had arrived, so Mr Franklin shrugged ruefully and walked on, examining his trophy, vaguely aware that just ahead of him, in that unpromising side-street, with its dust-bins and littered gutters, some activity was taking place round a lighted doorway.

His glance took in several couples, men dressed like himself, each with a girl on his arm, laughing and chattering as they moved away towards the main street; he was abreast of the doorway when a young woman came tripping out and almost collided with him. Mr Franklin stepped back, starting to apologize; the young woman looked right and left and straight at him; her glance went to the flowers in his hand, she smiled radiantly, then looked more closely at the bouquet, and regarded him with astonishment.

“Where did you get those, then?” she demanded.

“I beg your pardon?” Mr Franklin, nonplussed, looked from her to the flowers. “Why – from the old woman – along there.”

“You never!” She found it incredible. “Well, you’re a fine one, I must say!”

For a moment Mr Franklin, recalling his encounter with the suffragette the previous night, wondered if all Englishwomen were mad, or at least eccentric. This one looked sane enough – not only sane, in fact, but beautiful. Or if not beautiful, perhaps, then quite strikingly pretty. She was small, with bright blonde hair piled on top of her neat little head to give her added height; the face beneath was a perfect oval with pert nose, dimpled chin, and vivid blue eyes – one of them unfortunately had a slight squint, and Mr Franklin instinctively dropped his glance, taking in instead the hour-glass figure in the glittering white evening dress beneath the fur cape. Altogether, she was something of a vision in that grimy back street – a slightly professional vision, though, with her carefully made-up complexion and bosom rather over-exposed even by the generous Edwardian standard.

“You buy flowers from a florist, dear,” she said, regarding him with something between laughter and indignation, “not from street-hawkers. Not for me, anyway.”

Mr Franklin stiffened. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” he said. “I didn’t buy flowers for –”

“Here!” exclaimed the young woman. “Aren’t you from Box 2A?”

“No,” said Mr Franklin firmly. “I’m not. Not lately.”

“This isn’t your card?” And she held up a rectangle of pasteboard on which some message, indecipherable in that faint light, was scrawled. He shook his head.

“Well!” she exclaimed in some vexation. “I was sure you were him. Where the hell is he, then?”

Mr Franklin automatically looked round; certain there was no one else waiting. Behind her two other girls, in the same theatrical finery, were emerging from the doorway. For the first time he realized that the light overhead shone from within an iron frame reading “Stage Door”, and understanding dawned.

“Oh, damn!” said the blonde. “Another one with cold feet! Honestly, it makes you sick. They get all feverish, watching you on stage, and then at the last minute they remember mama, all worried about her wandering boy, and leave you flat.” She pouted, tore up the card, shrugged, and regarded Mr Franklin ruefully. “Who were you waiting for, then – Elsie, is it? She’ll be out in a minute. I say, Glad,” she said over her shoulder, “he isn’t from 2A after all.”

“Shame.” Glad, a dark, languorous beauty, looked Mr Franklin up and down regretfully. “Elsie has all the luck. “Night, Pip.” She and her companion sauntered off, and Mr Franklin, conscious that he was at a rather ridiculous disadvantage, was about to withdraw with what dignity he could, when the small blonde snorted indignantly.

“Of all the rotten tricks! D’you know, I haven’t been stood up since I was in the chorus? Brewster’s Millions, that was – and just as well, really; I think he was married –”

“I’m afraid –”

“’Course, in the chorus, you learn to expect it – now and then. But when you get out in front – well, when you have a solo, and if you’ve got any kind of figure at all – and I have, no mistake about it – well, you don’t get billings as ‘The Pocket Venus’ if you haven’t, do you? Huh! Of all the disky beasts! Blow him – whoever he was. I could have done with dinner at the Troc., too,” she added wistfully. “Hold on, I’ll see what’s keeping Elsie. Won’t be a sec.”

“Just a minute!” Mr Franklin spoke sharply, and the blonde checked, startled. “I’m sorry, there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not waiting for Elsie. In fact, I’m not waiting for anyone. I bought these flowers by chance –”

“You’re an American,” said the blonde, smiling brilliantly. “Well, I never!”

“I’m sorry if you were disappointed,” Franklin went on. “But you see—”

“Hold on a shake.” She was considering him, head on one side. She descended the step, still smiling, but with less animation than before. “I think you are the fellow from 2A, aren’t you? And you did send round the card, asking me to dinner at the Troc, didn’t you?”

“I assure you –”

“And then you saw me, close to. And I’ve got a squint. Wasn’t that it?” There was a curl of bitterness at the corner of the pretty mouth. “It’s my damned squint, isn’t it?”

Mr Franklin stood for a moment in silence. He was a level-tempered man, but he had found the last few minutes uncomfortable. He had felt momentarily bewildered, and then slightly foolish, and he was not used to either. The fact that the situation should have been amusing, or that most men would have seen it as an opportunity to further acquaintance with this unusually attractive girl, only increased his natural reserve. And now it was not amusing at all. He found himself at a loss, holding a bunch of flowers (something he had not done since childhood, if then) being reproached by a creature who was apparently preparing to feel aggrieved, through no fault of his. It was new to him, and he must take thought how to deal with it.

“No,” he said at last. “You’re quite wrong. I wasn’t waiting for you, or anyone. I said so. And I didn’t even notice if you had … a squint,” he lied. “I still don’t. And if I did, it wouldn’t make any difference – if I had been waiting for you, I mean.” For Mr Franklin, this was positively garrulous, but in this novel and disturbing situation he felt that frontier chivalry demanded something more. “You’re a remarkably beautiful girl, and anyone who saw you on the stage would be even more … impressed, when he met you. I’m sorry your friend didn’t turn up.”

He stepped back, intending to say good-night and go, but the blonde was regarding him with quizzical amusement.

“My,” she said, “you aren’t half solemn. Look, it’s all right, really. If you’re waiting for Elsie, I’ll be gone in a –”

“I am not waiting for Elsie,” said Mr Franklin emphatically.

“Well, the flowers, I mean … it looks odd. And if you are the chap from Box 2A – well, I don’t mean about the squint, but some fellows really do get quite nervous, you know, and change –”

“And I’m not from Box 2A. I’ve never even been in this theatre –”

“You mean you haven’t seen me singing ‘Boiled Beef and Carrots”? That’s my number, you know – a bit vulgar, but if you’ve got a shape for tights, why, that’s what they give you – and it hasn’t done Marie Lloyd any harm, has it? Are you married – is that it?” she asked speculatively.

“No,” said Mr Franklin patiently, “I’m not.”

“Well, then, that’s all right!” she said cheerfully. “Neither am I. And here we are – I’ve been stood up, and I’m starving – and you’re an American visitor, from the wild and woolly west, seeing the sights of London – you are, aren’t you? Well, then, you can’t go home to … to New York, or wherever it is, and say you missed the chance of taking a musical comedy star to supper in a fashionable restaurant – I don’t know about the Troc., though – I had a bad oyster there last time – but there’s the Cri.; no, that’s getting a bit common. Or there’s Gatti’s, that would do.” She smiled winningly at the silent American. “Well – don’t look so worried! It’s only a dinner – and it’s your own fault, anyway, promenading outside stage doors with bunches of flowers – a likely story! Give ’em here,” and she took the bunch of flowers, surveyed them critically, and dropped them on the pavement. “Now, then,” she put a gloved hand on Mr Franklin’s arm. “Where you going to take me?”

Mr Franklin understood that he was being made the victim of a most practised opportunist, but there was little that he could do about it – or, on reflection, that he wanted to do about it. She was a remarkably good-looking girl, and with all his reserve, he was human. However, it was not in him to capitulate informally; he looked down at her, the dark face thoughtful, and finally nodded.

“Very well. May I take you to supper, Miss …?”

“Delys. Miss Priscilla Delys, of the Folies Satire,” and she dropped him a little mock curtsey. “Enchanted to accept your gracious invitation, Mr …?”

“Franklin. Mark J. Franklin.” He found himself smiling down at her.

“Why have all Americans got a middle initial? You know, like Hiram J. Crinkle? Mind you, I’m one to talk – it’s not really Delys – it’s Sidebotham, but when you sing numbers like ‘Boiled Beef and Carrots’” you need all the style you can get. Priscilla’s real, though – Pip, for short. Come on, let’s get a taxi.”

Without any clear idea of how he got there, Mr Franklin found himself on the main street again, surveying the post-theatre bedlam in the vain hope of spotting an empty cab. But Miss Delys was equal to the occasion; she stepped daintily to the edge of the pavement, removed a glove, inserted two fingers in her mouth, and let out a piercing whistle, followed by a shrill cry of “Oi, Clarence!” A taxi swung into the kerb as though by magic, Miss Delys smiled right and left as heads turned, some obviously in recognition, said “Monico’s, Ginger,” to the driver, and seated herself regally, followed by a diffident but grateful Mr Franklin.

He was still collecting his thoughts as they sped towards the restaurant, which was just as well, since Pip Delys talked non-stop. He learned, in short order, of her career in the chorus of Brewster’s Millions, of her brief sojourn at the Gaiety, and of her emergence as third principal at the Folies Satire, where she hoped for even greater things, “’cos Jenny Slater, who’s second, is sure to go into panto somewhere this season, as principal boy – she’s got the thighs for it, you see, like sides of bacon – an’ Elsie Chappell can’t last much longer – stuck-up cow, just ’cos she started in the chorus at the Savoy – well, I mean, that was back before the Flood, practically, not that she hasn’t got a good voice, ’cos she has, but she’s getting on – must be thirty if she’s a day, and dances like an ostrich.” Miss Delys giggled happily, and Mr Franklin took the opportunity to wonder if thirty was so old, after all.

“Well, I’m twenty-three,” said Pip seriously. “Twenty-three, professionally, that is. I’m twenty, really, but I’ve been in the business five years, and you daren’t tell ’em you’re just fifteen, you see. Anyway, I’ve always been plump enough, but I’m small, that’s the trouble – you’ve got to be tall, really, to be a principal – but I make up for it with bounce and bubble – that’s what Mr Edwardes used to say. Here we are – the Monico. All right, Ginger –” she tapped the driver on the shoulder – “double or quits.”

The driver, who was elderly and had no vestige of hair, ginger or otherwise, sighed heavily and glanced at Mr Franklin, who was producing change. Pip snatched a coin from him, spun it and clapped it deftly on her gloved wrist. “’Eads,” said the driver hopefully, and she crowed with delight. “Too bad, Ginge – it’s tails. Better luck next time,” and she skipped out onto the stained velvet carpet which covered the Monico pavement, leaving Mr Franklin to present a tip which more than covered the lost fare.

Within, Monico’s was a glaze of crystal and gilt, with a small covey of flunkeys greeting Miss Delys by name, removing her wrap, and bowing obsequiously to Mr Franklin. It was at this point he recalled a name, supplied by Samson, and felt himself obliged to mention it.

“I’d like to speak to Maurice,” he told the nearest minion, a small Italian who looked puzzled and repeated: “Morris, sir? Ah – Morrees, but of course.” Pip raised a questioning brow.

“What’s that, then? I thought you were a stranger. Never mind, Renzo – table for two on the balcony, for champagne, and a supper-room afterwards.” To Mr Franklin she went on archly: “How d’you know the head-waiter’s name, straight from the backwoods? I can see you’ll need an eye kept on you – flowers at the stage door, too. Well, well! You’re a dark horse.”

He explained, as they were conducted to their table by the balcony rail, that the name had been learned accidentally, but Pip was too occupied to listen; she was making her entrance, keeping an eye cocked and a profile turned for theatrical managers, calling and waving brightly to acquaintances, keeping up a running fire of comment while the champagne was poured, and pausing only to take an appraising sip.

“Not bad for a tanner a glass,” was her verdict, and Mr Franklin, who had tasted French champagne for the first time on the Mauretania, would not have presumed to argue. Privately, he thought it an overrated drink, but he was content to sip while his companion prattled, and watch the well-dressed throng in the dining room below.

“Thin house tonight,” was how Pip described it. “’Course, it’s early yet; there’ll be more later.” Mr Franklin remarked that so far as he could see, every table was full, and Pip clicked impatiently.

“I mean real people, silly – celebrities. They’re nobodies –” and she dismissed the assembly with an airy wave. “Let’s see, though – there’s one or two – see, over there, that dark lady with the pearls, beside the chap with whiskers? Mrs Pat Campbell, that is – you’ve heard of her. They reckon she’s a great actress – in all them grisly plays by Henry Gibson, or whatever his name is. She’s got a new play now, at Her Majesty’s, but I heard tell it was a stinker. False Gods, I ask you!” Pip rolled her eyes and pronounced in a strangled contralto: “‘Desmond, our ways must part – forevah! Yah touch defiles me!’ Honest, that’s the sort of thing they put on – well, how can that run against revues and variety and niggers singing in the bioscope?”

She drained her glass, and twitched at the sleeve of a passing waiter. “Menus, Dodger – I’m peckish.” She suddenly put her forearms on the table and leaned across towards him, smiling impishly, but with a hint of apology. “I’m sorry – I’m dead common, aren’t I? Chivvying waiters and taxi-drivers, shouting out and making an exhibition of myself. Aren’t you ashamed? Sorry you came? But it’s the way I’m made – and being in the show business, you see. I’m just a Cockney sparrow – well, you can tell by the accent. And I squint, too.”

Mr Franklin was spared a gallant denial by the arrival of the menus, imposing documents of several pages in ornate script, most of it in French. Pip seized on hers with satisfaction.

“Oysters! Say a couple of dozen between us? I love oysters – prob’ly comes of having a father in the fish business.”