Jill the Reckless

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.