An anxious expression came into the man's eyes. He hesitated. He lowered his voice.
"I have a horrible feeling that it's Lancelot!"
"Good God!" said Archie.
"It couldn't really be that, could it?"
Archie looked grave. He hated to give pain, but he felt he must be honest.
"It might," he said. "People give their children all sorts of rummy names. My second name's Tracy. And I have a pal in England who was christened Cuthbert de la Hay Horace. Fortunately everyone calls him Stinker."
The head-waiter began to drift up like a bank of fog, and the Sausage Chappie returned to his professional duties. When he came back, he was beaming again.
"Something else I remembered," he said, removing the cover. "I'm married!"
"Good Lord!"
"At least I was before the war. She had blue eyes and brown hair and a Pekingese dog."
"What was her name?"
"I don't know."
"Well, you're coming on," said Archie. "I'll admit that. You've still got a bit of a way to go before you become like one of those blighters who take the Memory Training Courses in the magazine advertisements—I mean to say, you know, the lads who meet a fellow once for five minutes, and then come across him again ten years later and grasp him by the hand and say, 'Surely this is Mr. Watkins of Seattle?' Still, you're doing fine. You only need patience. Everything comes to him who waits." Archie sat up, electrified. "I say, by Jove, that's
