Our eyes coquetted. I put one foot into the roadway, withdrew it,
restored it to the roadway, and then crossed the street.

It was indeed the celebrated Sullivan Smith, composer of those so
successful musical comedies, "The Japanese Cat," "The Arabian Girl,"
and "My Queen." And he condescended to recognize me! His gestures
indicated, in fact, a warm desire to be cousinly. I reached him. The
moment was historic. While the groom held the wheeler's head, and the
twin menials assisted with dignified inactivity, we shook hands.

"How long is it?" he said.

"Fifteen years--about," I answered, feeling deliciously old.

"Remember I punched your head?"

"Rather!" (Somehow I was proud that he had punched my head.)

"No credit to me," he added magnanimously, "seeing I was years older
than you and a foot or so taller. By the way, Carl, how old did you
say you were?"

He regarded me as a sixth-form boy might regard a fourth-form boy.

"I didn't say I was any age," I replied. "But I'm twenty-three."

"Well, then, you're quite old enough to have a drink. Come into the
club and partake of a gin-and-angostura, old man. I'll clear all this
away."