ng into the chair vacated by the cynical
one. "How do, Courtier. You look a bit cheap--been gassed?"

"No," replied Don; "merely a stiff neck due to sleeping with my head
above the parapet."

James stared dully, continuing to bite his nails. "When are you going
back?"

"As soon as my batman wires me that the weather has improved."

"Have you finished lunch? Let's split a bottle of wine before you go."

"No bottle of wine for me," said Flamby, "unless you want the police in.
One glass of wine and you'd be ashamed to know me." She was
uncomfortably conscious of a certain tension which the presence of James
had created. "Isn't it time we started?" she asked, turning to Don.
"Mrs. Chumley will be expecting us."

"Ah!" cried Don gratefully, glancing at his watch. "Of course she will.
Where is the waiter?"

* * * * *

"You don't like James, do you?" said Flamby, as the car approached The
Hostel.

"No. Vanity in a man is ridiculous, and I always endeavour to avoid
ridiculous people. James is a clever painter, but a very stupid fellow.
Seeing him to-day reminds me of something I had meant to ask you,
Flamby. Just before I last came on leave you wrote at Paul's request to
enquire if I considered it wise that you should go about with James and
we discussed the point whilst I was home. You remember, no doubt?"

Flamby nodded. Her expression was very pensive. "Then I wrote and asked
if you minded my seeing him occasionally for a special purpose, and you
wrote back that you had every confidence in my discretion, which pleased
me very much. Now I suppose you want to know what the special purpose
was?"

"Not unless you wish to tell me, Flamby."

"I do wish to tell you," said Flamby slowly. "That was why I suggested
coming here, because I knew all the time of course that Mrs. Chumley was
away."

They entered The Hostel, deserted as it usually was at that hour of the
day, passing into the courtyard, which already was gay with the flowers
of early spring. The window-boxes, too, and vases within open casements
splashed patches of colour upon the old-world canvas, the yellow and
purple of crocus and daffodil, modest star-blue of forget-me-nots and
the varied tints of sweet hyacinth. Flamby's tiny house, which Mrs.
Chumley called "the squirrel's nest," was fragrant with roses, for
Flamby's taste in flowers was extravagant, and she regularly exhausted
the stocks of the local florist. A huge bas