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Marshal von Bluecher.

“It’s easier than I thought.”

“What? The chair?”

Tony stretched his lazy length along it. “Yes—but more. Being taken on here. No, not only in this club of yours —limited imagination you’ve got! In London, I mean.”

Brackenridge stared blankly. “Why shouldn’t you be?” he said. “You’re—presentable. And I———”

“And you’re answering for me. Oh, don’t blush, old man. I know that counts for a lot. But still, when I think how little they have to go on”–“and how much less I have to go on,” he added mentally, but saying it aloud would only have puzzled Archie.

“I don’t see why they should want any more. Besides, you’re something new, in a way. They always like that. You don’t quite fit in with any of the types.”

“Is that it? Anyhow, they’re being very nice. And I like it—it’s all new. I’ve had more invitations in the last week than I had in all my life put together. To be accurate, I never did have an invitation till the last three years, and they were patchy. I like being a lily of the field too—for a change.”

“‘Even Solomon in all his glory. . . .’ Well, it suits you.”

“Does it? As long as I’m certain it’s not going to last, perhaps it does. Anyhow, it’s fun, and London looked different when I last saw it—from the box-seat of a taxi-cab.”