He had been urged to the homily by the fact that at a neighboring
table he had caught sight of a stout young Briton, with a red
face, who reminded him of the Honorable Frederick Threepwood. He
mentioned this to Aline.

"Do you see that fellow in the gray suit--I think he has been
sleeping in it--at the table on your right? Look at the stodgy
face. See the glassy eye. If that man sandbagged your Freddie and
tied him up somewhere, and turned up at the church instead of
him, can you honestly tell me you would know the difference?
Come, now, wouldn't you simply say, 'Why, Freddie, how natural
you look!' and go through the ceremony without a suspicion?"

"He isn't a bit like Freddie."

"My dear girl, there isn't a man in this restaurant under the age
of thirty who isn't just like Freddie. All Englishmen look
exactly alike, talk exactly alike, and think exactly alike."

"And you oughtn't to speak of him as Freddie. You don't know
him."

"Yes, I do. And, what is more, he expressly asked me to call him
Freddie. 'Oh, dash it, old top, don't keep on calling me
Threepwood! Freddie to pals!' Those were his very words."

"George, you're making this up."

"Not at all. We met last night at the National Sporting Club.
Porky Jones was going twenty rounds with Eddie Flynn. I offered