plan was not to keep them waiting.

It may therefore be perhaps set down to his modernity of business
spirit that he prepared to entertain his benefactor, Geoffrey Alison,
with so much thoroughness. Here (he may be imagined to have said) was
a man who had done him a good turn in business. Every care, then, must
be taken to provide him with an evening exactly to his taste. Then,
maybe, he might do him another.

However that may be, Geoffrey Alison was thoroughly delighted.
Everything was just how he would have arranged it for himself, had he
been a millionaire and not a struggling artist. When Blatchley, whom
he really hardly knew, had first suggested this evening together, the
programme mapped out had appealed to him; but safely home again, he had
repented and been within an inch of cancelling. Yet was it wise to
risk offending this man, a hard business devil, who already thought he
was not playing cricket? ... So out he had come, mistrustful of the
other's hospitality; with visions of Soho, and half expecting he would
pay the bill.

Yet Blatchley, without any of that awkward "Where shall we dine?"
business common to bad hosts, had instantly said; "Shall we try the
Ritz?" as quite the natural thing. To this he had assented no less
instantly, only regretting that he had decided against a white
waistcoat. Then Blatchley had proposed the actual champagne he liked.
Then there had come the Empire: two half-guinea stalls, in which they
hardly sat, for Blatchley (who turned out to be a very decent sort)
said he always liked the promenade much better than the programme. So
they had sat about and had a drink or two, and laughed, and debated
which of the beautiful ladies around them they should introduce
themselves to without finally deciding upon any (exactly his own pet
routine), and so on to the Cafe de l'Europe, where they had merely had
a Kuemmel and looked round a bit.

And now here they were at the Savoy, the proper end for any festive
evening; with people, music, food, wine, light and everything exactly
as it should be, and peace inside the soul of Geoffrey Alison.
Blatchley was a dam good sort and not a business swine at all.

It would be untrue to say that Geoffrey Alison was drunk. No one is
ever drunk at the Savoy. He was inanely genial. Blatchley was a dam
good fellow....

"Well," said his host, as half the lights suddenly went out, obedient
to a grandmaternal law of his adopted and free fatherland,