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Baden told a story of a detective who lost the sight of one eye while gathering evidence for a divorce.

Patricia recalled a line from a detective play which had thrilled her years before. She rose to her feet unsteadily and held her wine-glass above her head.

“‘What does it all matter, Watson?’” she declaimed addressing the ceiling and scorning the condemnatory glances of two women who were knitting beside the empty fire-place: “‘The warm breath of a few more summers—the cold chill of a few more winters—and then———’?”

She tossed her glass from her with a nonchalant gesture, tottered slightly and slumped back upon the chesterfield.

The knights applauded gravely.

“Wonderful!” declared Baden, winking significantly at George.

“Marvellous!” echoed George, returning the wink. “I think the effort calls for another dispeller. Baden, depress the doings.”

Baden pressed the bell.

“Same again,” he ordered, when the waiter bowed before them.

“Not so, not so!” objected George with drunken gravity. “We have suffered the indignity of coloured waters long enough, my friend. We will have a man’s drink. Varlet, three whiskeys-and-sodas.”

The waiter looked dubiously at Patricia, who sat with her eyes closed, careless what she drank.

“Just as you say,” agreed Baden easily; “just as you say. Three whiskeys-and-soda.”

Whiskey-and-soda was a strategical error on the part of George. The knights realised that some minutes later when the girl became drowsy. She lay back against their linked arms and closed her eyes, and experienced that uncomfortable sensation of floating in space with the heels much higher than the head.