"Dog's been at it," explained the waster brightly. "What's the idea? Private theatricals?"
"Yes," said Bean, "private theatricals," and resumed his place on the couch, staring dully at the closet door.
"But, look here, old chap, you must liven up. She would have it I should come for you. My word! I believe you're funking! You look absurdly rotten like it, you know."
"Toothache, right across here," muttered Bean. "Have to put it off."
"But that's not done, old top; really it's not done, you know. It . . . it . . . one doesn't do it at all, you know."
"Never?" asked Bean, brightening a little with alarm.
"Jolly well never," insisted the waster; "not for anything a dentist-fellow could manage. Come now!"
Bean was listless once more, deaf, unseeing.
"Righto," said the waster. "Bachelor dinner last night . . . yes?"
The situation had become intelligible to him. He found the bathroom, and from it came the sound of running water. He had the air of a Master of Revels.
"Into it—only thing to do!"
He led Bean to the brink of the icy pool and skilfully flayed him of the flowered gown. He was thorough, the waster. He'd known chaps to pretend to get in by making a great splashing with
