Mike laughed. One of those short, hollow, bitter laughs.

'I am at a loss, Comrade Jackson,' said Psmith, 'to understand your
attitude. You fed sumptuously. You had fun with the crockery--that
knockabout act of yours with the water-jug was alone worth the
money--and you had the advantage of listening to the views of a
master of his subject. What more do you want?'

'What on earth did you land me with that man Prebble for?'

'Land you! Why, you courted his society. I had practically to drag you
away from him. When I got up to say good-bye, you were listening to him
with bulging eyes. I never saw such a picture of rapt attention. Do you
mean to tell me, Comrade Jackson, that your appearance belied you, that
you were not interested? Well, well. How we misread our fellow
creatures.'

'I think you might have come and lent a hand with Prebble. It was a bit
thick.'

'I was too absorbed with Comrade Waller. We were talking of things of
vital moment. However, the night is yet young. We will take this cab,
wend our way to the West, seek a cafe, and cheer ourselves with light
refreshments.'

Arrived at a cafe whose window appeared to be a sort of museum of every
kind of German sausage, they took possession of a vacant table and
ordered coffee. Mike soon found himself soothed by his bright
surroundings, and gradually his impressions of blancmange, Edward, and
Comrade Prebble faded from his mind. Psmith, meanwhile, was preserving