In the precincts of the dance-studio Mr. Oswald Morfey said in that simple, half-lisping tone and with that wide-open child-like glance that characterised most of his remarks: 

“A very prosperous little affair here!” Having said this, he let his eyeglass fall into the full silkiness of his shirt-front, and turned and smiled very amicably and agreeably on Mr. Prohack, who could not help thinking:  “Perhaps after all you aren’t such a bad sort of an idiot.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Prohack.  “Do you often get as far as Putney?” For Mr. Oswald Morfey, enveloped as he unquestionably was in the invisible aura of the West End, seemed conspicuously out of place in a dance-studio in a side-street in Putney, having rather the air of an angelic visitant.

“Well, now I come to think of it, I don’t!” Mr. Morfey answered nearly all questions as though they were curious, disconcerting questions that took him by surprise.  This mannerism was universally attractive—­until you got tired of it.

Mr. Prohack was now faintly attracted by it,—­so that he said, in a genuine attempt at good-fellowship: 

“You know I can’t for the life of me remember your name.  You must excuse me.  My memory for names is not what it was.  And I hate to dissemble, don’t you?”

The announcement was a grave shock to Mr. Oswald Morfey, who imagined that half the taxi-drivers in London knew him by sight.  Nevertheless he withstood the shock like a little man of the world, and replied with miraculous and sincere politeness:  “I’m sure there’s no reason why you should remember my name.”  And he vouchsafed his name.

“Of course!  Of course!” exclaimed Mr. Prohack, with a politeness equally miraculous, for the word “Morfey” had no significance for the benighted official.  “How stupid of me!”

“By the way,” said Mr. Morfey in a lower, confidential tone.  “Your Eagle will be ready to-morrow instead of next week.”

“My Eagle?”

“Your new car.”

It was Mr. Prohack’s turn to be staggered, and to keep his nerve.  Not one word had he heard about the purchase of a car since Charlie’s telegram from Glasgow.  He had begun to think that his wife had either forgotten the necessity of a car or was waiting till his more complete recovery before troubling him to buy it.  And he had taken care to say nothing about it himself, for he had discovered, upon searching his own mind, that his interest in motor-cars was not an authentic interest and that he had no desire at all to go motoring in pursuit of health.  And lo!  Eve had been secretly engaged in the purchase of a car for him!  Oh!  A remarkable woman, Eve:  she would stop at nothing when his health was in question.  Not even at a two thousand pound car.

“Ah, yes!” said Mr. Prohack, with as much tranquillity as though his habit was to buy a car once a week or so.  “To-morrow, you say?  Good!” Was the fellow then a motor-car tout working on commission?