he civilised world into two camps, and already I,
who encouraged him to the task, begin to tremble for its outcome."

II

Flamby arrived at London Bridge Station in a profoundly dejected
condition. However happy one may be, London Bridge Station possesses the
qualities of a sovereign joy-killer, and would have inclined the
thoughts of Mark Tapley toward the darker things of life; but to Flamby,
alone in a world which she did not expect to find sympathetic, it seemed
a particularly hopeless place. She was dressed in black, and black did
not suit her, and all the wisdom of your old philosophers must fail to
solace a woman who knows that she is not looking her best.

Her worldly belongings were contained in a split-cane grip and the
wraith of a cabin-trunk, whose substance had belonged to her father; her
available capital was stuffed in a small leather purse. When the train
with a final weary snort ceased its struggles and rested beside the
platform, that murk so characteristic of London draped the grimy
structure of the station, and a fine drizzle was falling. London had
endued no holiday garments to greet Flamby, but, homely fashion, had
elected to receive her in its everyday winter guise. A pathetic little
figure, she stepped out of the carriage. Something in the contrast
between this joyless gloom and the sun-gay hills she had known and loved
brought a sudden mist before Flamby's eyes, so that she remained unaware
of the presence of a certain genial officer until a voice which was
vaguely familiar said: "Your train was late, Miss Duveen."

Flamby started, stared, and found Donald Courtier standing smiling at
her. Although she had seen him only once before she knew him immediately
because she had often studied the photograph which was inside the famous
silver cigarette-case. The mistiness of vision troubled her anew as she
held out her black-gloved hand. "Oh," she said huskily, "how good of
you."

The last word was almost inaudible, and whilst Don grasped her hand
between both his own and pressed it reassuringly, Flamby stared through
the mist at three golden stars on the left shoulder of his topcoat.

"Now," cried Don cheerily, "what about our baggage?"

"There's only one old trunk," said Flamby, "except this funny thing."

"Give me the funny thing," replied Don briskly, "and here is a comic
porter who will dig out the trunk. Porter!"

Linking his left arm in Flamby's right, Don, taking up the cane grip,
mo