ds. He listened to
interviews between his host and all kinds and conditions of men. The
voices of the visitors would rise at first--angry, discontented,
matter-of-fact, with nasal twang, or guttural drawl; then would come the
soft patter of the superintendent's feet crossing and recrossing the
room. Then a pause, the sound of hard breathing, and quick
questions--the visitor's voice again, again the patter, and Pippin's
ingratiating but decisive murmurs. Presently out would come the visitor
with an expression on his face which Scorrier soon began to know by
heart, a kind of pleased, puzzled, helpless look, which seemed to say,
"I've been done, I know--I'll give it to myself when I'm round the
corner."

Pippin was full of wistful questions about "home." He wanted to talk of
music, pictures, plays, of how London looked, what new streets there
were, and, above all, whether Scorrier had been lately in the West
Country. He talked of getting leave next winter, asked whether Scorrier
thought they would "put up with him at home"; then, with the agitation
which had alarmed Scorrier before, he added: "Ah! but I'm not fit for
home now. One gets spoiled; it's big and silent here. What should I go
back to? I don't seem to realise."

Scorrier thought of Hemmings. "'Tis a bit cramped there, certainly," he
muttered.

Pippin went on as if divining his thoughts. "I suppose our friend
Hemmings would call me foolish; he's above the little weaknesses of
imagination, eh? Yes; it's silent here. Sometimes in the evening I
would give my head for somebody to talk to--Hemmings would never give his
head for anything, I think. But all the same, I couldn't face them at
home. Spoiled!" And slyly he murmured: "What would the Board say if
they could hear that?"

Scorrier blurted out: "To tell you the truth, they complain a little of
not hearing from you."

Pippin put out a hand, as if to push something away. "Let them try the
life here!" he broke out; "it's like sitting on a live volcano--what
with our friends, 'the enemy,' over there; the men; the American
competition. I keep it going, Scorrier, but at what a cost--at what a
cost!"

"But surely--letters?"

Pippin only answered: "I try--I try!"

Scorrier felt with remorse and wonder that he had spoken the truth. The
following day he left for his inspection, and while in the camp of "the
enemy" much was the talk he heard of Pippin.

"Why!" said his host, the superintendent,