“Don’t be concerned! You’ll do very well! I see you made time to change for dinner . . .” Dickie said reassuringly, taking him by the elbow. The arsehole had always been able to read their minds. “Now come and meet some of my friends.” He gave one of his affected pauses, then: “I say, I hope you don’t mind if I give a little advice, habitué that I am, concerning the correct social etiquette. You, my boy, are taking me out to dinner. It’s a set meal of two courses, you’ll find, and when asked you’re to pay in cash—sixpence for each diner. If you would like to pay extra to sponsor other indigent guests, do feel free to do that—the boater would seem to signal such magnanimity. And—most important—when you encounter the ladies who officiate, do not try to get alongside with compliments on their beauty and kindness. However angelic they may appear to you, you must resist. Remember that they are, for the most part, the wives, sisters and daughters of the volunteer army that saves the lives and occasionally the souls of the poor of Cambridge. These gentlemen are frequently on hand and have a short way with troublemakers. Shall we?”

The sourpuss in a bonnet who kept the door looked him up and down with suspicion and held up a hand to bar his entry. After a minute or two of Dickie’s blarney, so fulsome and apparently endless even Eliza grew weary of it, she agreed to accept Oily as a twice-paying, philanthropic Friend of the Army, held out a hand for a two-shilling piece and entered it into a cash book. Their signatures were required in a second ledger, and she allowed Dickie to sign in for them both. Oily noted that for this evening they were Noël Coward and Maurice Moneybags. Finally, she tore off four dockets from a pad—two red for mains (bread included)—two yellow for puddings and let them through.

“Gawd!” Oily exclaimed with relief. “I had less trouble getting into Suzie’s Sporting Salon in Cape Town! Cheaper, too! And at least there were some pretty girls there. I’m still looking for your ‘angels.’ His eye roamed very briefly over the lineup of capacious pinnied bosoms and muscular arms officiating over the evening’s handout. “Ah! You were having me on. Lord! Do you expect me to eat that muck they’re dishing out?”

“Just take your plate, smile and say thank you,” Dickie muttered. “Mrs. Campion! My favourite again! How do you know when to expect me? Thank you so much! We will savour it! And apple pie for afters.”