in the wind-up. I'm no better, I'm no worse, than
the rest of our fellows, but I'm Irish--I can see. The Celt can always
see, even if he can't act. And I see dark days coming for this old
land. England is wallowing. It's all guzzle and feed and finery, and
nobody cares a copper about anything that matters--"

"About Cape to Cairo, eh?"

"Byng, that was one of my idiocies. But you think over what I say, just
the same. I'm right. We're rotten cotton stuff now in these isles.
We've got fatty degeneration of the heart, and in all the rest of the
organs too."

Again Byng shook him by the hand warmly. "Well, Wallstein will give us
a fat dinner to-night, and you can moralize with lime-light effects
after the foie gras, Barry."

Closing the door slowly behind his friend, whom he had passed into the
hands of the dark-browed Krool, Byng turned again to his desk. As he
did so he caught sight of his face in the mirror over the mantel-piece.
A shadow swept over it; his lips tightened.

"Barry was right," he murmured, scrutinizing himself. "I've
degenerated. We've all degenerated. What's the matter, anyhow? What is
the matter? I've got everything--everything--everything."

Hearing the door open behind him, he turned to see Jasmine in evening
dress smiling at him. She held up a pink finger in reproof.

"Naughty boy," she said. "What's this I hear--that you have thrown me
over--me--to go and dine with the Wallstein! It's nonsense! You can't
go. Ian Stafford is coming to dine, as I told you."

His eyes beamed protectingly, affectionately, and yet, somehow, a
little anxiously, on her "But I must go, Jasmine. It's the first time
we've all been together since the Raid, and it's good we should be in
the full circle once again. There's work to do--more than ever there
was. There's a storm coming up on the veld, a real jagged lightning
business, and men will get hurt, hosts beyond recovery. We must commune
together, all of us. If there's the communion of saints, there's also
the communion of sinners. Fleming is back, and Wolff is back, and
Melville and Reuter and Hungerford are back, but only for a few days,
and we all must meet and map things out. I forgot about the dinner. As
soon as I remembered it I left a note on your dressing-table."

With sudden emotion he drew her to him, and buried his face in her soft
golden hair. "My darling, my little jasmine-flower," he whispered,
softly, "I hate leaving you, but--"

"But it's impossi