s and who had no doubt forgotten about her. And she was
alone here, utterly dependent upon him, who had made his plans for
taking her away to a civilized country, where he could make her happy.
He smiled with profound satisfaction as he thought of himself with her
beside him, in London. How her beauty would flash like a barbaric jewel
in that gray old city! He remembered the money she had stowed away,
ready for the great adventure. He called it that in romantic moments,
yet what was more easy than running out after dark, with nothing fast
enough to catch him? Especially as he heard that there would be a review
in a day or so when everyone would be on their toes to see the general.
He thought of the money because even in his romantic moments there was
enough to live on for a year "while he looked round." No more
second-mate's jobs, he muttered. He would pick and choose. He rose and
stretched luxuriously, noting the calm glitter of the city's lights like
a necklace on the bosom of the mountain. He would have to spend an
evening with that chap Marsh. Very decent fellow. Had pressed him more
than once to join them at Costi's in the Rue Parallel. He was satisfied
apparently, married to his Armenian wife and teaching music and
languages to earn a living for a large family. Mr. Spokesly recalled a
remark made by Mr. Marsh one day at the Sports Club: "Oh! Don't
misunderstand me! For myself, as regards the war, you know, I am a
philosopher. What can we do? Ask any fair-minded person at home, what
could they do, in our position? There's only one answer--make the best
of it. Don't misunderstand us."

And he had ventured a remark that possibly they, and the fair-minded
person at home, might misunderstand him, coming into an enemy port like
that.

"Oh, no!" Mr. Marsh was untroubled by that. "You were like us, as far as
I can make out. Had to make the best of it. Now your captain...."

There was a fascination about the captain for Mr. Marsh. For twenty
years he had lived in a sort of middle-class and inconspicuous exile,
and destined, as far as he could discover, to remain for ever in the dry
and unromantic regions of a middle-class existence. Nothing, he was
often fond of saying to his friends, ever happened to him. The things
one reads of in books! he would exclaim, with a short grunting laugh of
humorous regret. Stories of fair Circassians, Balkan countesses, Turkish
beauties, Armenian damsels...! Where were they? He had married