"Any petrol in the tank?..." In those days men of fashion were apt to
forget, at moments of crisis, that the first necessity of the engine was
petrol. George behaved magnanimously. He might have extinguished Lucas
with a single inflection as Lucas, shamed to the uttermost, poured a
spare half-tin of petrol into the tank. He refrained.

In one minute, in less than one minute, they were at the side entrance
to the Cafe Royal, which less than a minute earlier had been
inconceivably distant and unattainable. Lucas dashed first into the
restaurant. To keep ladies waiting in a public place was for him the
very worst crime, surpassing in turpitude arson, embezzlement, and the
murder of innocents. The ladies must have been waiting for a quarter of
an hour, half an hour! His reputation was destroyed!

However, the ladies had not arrived.

"That's all right," Lucas breathed, at ease at last. The terrible scowl
had vanished from his face, which was perfectly recomposed into its
urbane, bland charm.

"Now perhaps you'll inform me who they are, old man," George suggested,
relinquishing his overcoat to a flunkey, and following Lucas into the
cloister set apart for the cleansing of hands which have meddled with
machinery.

"The Wheeler woman is one--didn't I tell you?" Lucas answered,
unsuccessfully concealing his pride.

"Wheeler?"

"Irene Wheeler. You know."

George was really impressed. Lucas had hitherto said no word as to his
acquaintance with this celebrated woman. It was true that recently Lucas
had been spreading himself in various ways--he had even passed his
Intermediate--but George had not anticipated such a height of
achievement as the feat of entertaining at a restaurant a cynosure like
Irene Wheeler. George had expected quite another sort of company at
dinner, for he had publicly dined with Lucas before. All day he had been
abstracted, listless, and utterly desolate. All day he had gone over
again and again the details of the interview with Mr. Haim, his telegram
to Marguerite and her unspeakable telegram to him, hugging close a
terrific grievance. Only from pique against Marguerite had he accepted
Lucas's invitation. The adventure in Piccadilly Circus had somewhat
enlivened him, and now the fluttering prospect of acquaintance with the
legendary Irene Wheeler pushed Marguerite into the background of his
mind, and excitement became quite pleasant. "And a Miss Ingram," Lucas
added.

"Not Lois Ingram?" excla