Wynne was in one of his "devil"
humours, and all the fun and joking and merriment in the world would
never get him out of it. His pity for the man suddenly died a natural
death. The very evident fact that Wynne had been drinking rather heavily
merely added a further distaste to it all. He wished heartily that he
had never ventured upon this act of unwanted friendliness and given a
dinner in his honour. Wynne was going to be the spectre at the feast, and
it looked like being a poor sort of show after all.
"Come, buck up, old chap!" broke out Tony West, the irrepressible. "Try
to look a little less like a soured lemon, if you can! Or we'll begin to
think that you've been and gone and done something you're sorry for, and
are trying to work it off on us instead."
"Hello, here's Doctor Johnson," as the venerable Bartholomew entered the
room. "How goes it to-night, sir? A fine night, what? Behold the king of
the feast, his serene and mighty--oh extremely mighty!--highness Prince
Dacre Wynne, world explorer and soon to be lord-high-sniffer of Cairo's
smells! Don't envy him the task, do you?"
He bowed with a flourish to the doctor who chuckled and his keen eyes,
fringed with snow-white lashes, danced.
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