Publisher's Synopsis
Freddie Rooke gazed coldly at the breakfast-table. Through a gleaming eye-glass he inspected the revolting object which Barker, his faithful man, had placed on a plate before him. "Barker!" His voice had a ring of pain. "Sir?" "What's this?" "Poached egg, sir." Freddie averted his eyes with a silent shudder. "It looks just like an old aunt of mine," he said. "Remove it!" He got up, and, wrapping his dressing-gown about his long legs, took up a stand in front of the fireplace. From this position he surveyed the room, his shoulders against the mantelpiece, his calves pressing the club fender. It was a cheerful oasis in a chill and foggy world, a typical London bachelor's breakfast-room. The walls were a restful grey, and the table, set for two, a comfortable arrangement in white and silver. "Eggs, Barker," said Freddie solemnly, "are the acid test!" "Yes, sir?" "If, on the morning after, you can tackle a poached egg, you are all right. If not, not. And don't let anybody tell you otherwise." "No, sir." Freddie pressed the palm of his hand to his brow, and sighed.
