As I was putting on my coat, Sandy came up. “Come to the Club, d**k,” he said. “I want to talk to you.” His manner was so peremptory that I opened my eyes.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve promised to walk home with Medina.”
“Oh, damn Medina!” he said. “Do as I ask or you’ll be sorry for it.”
I wasn’t feeling very pleased with Sandy, especially as Medina was near enough to hear what he said. So I told him rather coldly that I didn’t intend to go back on my arrangement. He turned and marched out, cannoning at the doorway into Burminster, to whom he did not apologise. That nobleman rubbed his shoulder ruefully. “Old Sandy hasn’t got used to his corn yet,” he laughed. “Looks as if the madeira had touched up his liver.”
It was a fine still March night with a good moon, and as we walked along Piccadi
