"Nothing of the sort. He was delighted to meet me again--de-lighted.
He's coming to munch with us tomorrow evening, by the way, so you
might sport the tablecloth for once, William old dear, and tell the
cook to put it across Og, the fatted capon, and generally strive to
live down your reputation as the worst Mess President the world has
ever seen. You will, I know--for my sake."
Next morning, when I came down to breakfast, I found a note from him
saying that he had gone to the Divisional Races with his dear old
college chum, Cazenove; also the following addenda:--
"P.S.--If William should miss a few francs from the Mess Fund tell him
I will return it fourfold ere night. I am on to a sure thing.
"P.P.S.--If MacTavish should raise a howl about his fawn leggings,
tell him I have borrowed them for the day as I understand there will
be V.A.D.'s present, and _noblesse oblige_."
At a quarter past eight that night he returned, accompanied by a
pleasant-looking gunner subaltern, whom we gathered to be the Cazenove
person. I say "gathered," for Albert Edward did not trouble to
introduce the friend of his youth, but, flinging himself into a chair,
attacked his food in a sulky silence which endured all through the
repast. Mr. Cazenove, on the other hand, was in excellent form. He had
spent a beautiful day, he said, and didn't care who knew it.
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