ar.

"'And would you have stood for it, Jack?' I asked him, 'seeing that Mrs.
Evans would hardly have approved, I mean.' He roused up and worked his
shoulders suddenly in a curious way, as though shifting a burden.

"'Oh, as to that!' he broke out, and then after a pause he added, 'You
can't always go by that. I'd stand for a whole lot from you, Fred.'

"And with that, to the regret of Mr. Tonderbeg who was hovering about
outside in the main cabin, our conversation ended.

"We bunkered in Algiers and the newspapers gave us the news of the war.
A war so insignificant that most of you young fellows have forgotten all
about it. And the captain of a ship in the harbour, hearing we were from
Saloniki, came over and informed us that he himself had been bound for
that port, with a cargo of stores, but had received word to stop and
wait for further orders. He was very indignant, for he had expected some
pretty handsome pickings. The point of his story was that the stuff was
for Macedoine & Co. who would be able to claim a stiff sum in
compensation for non-delivery. I believe the case ran on for years in
the courts, and the lawyers did very well out of it.

"And when we reached Glasgow, I took the train to London to deliver the
package M. Kinaitsky had entrusted to me. I was curious to learn
something of that gentleman's affiliations in England, to discover, if
you like, how his rather disconcerting mentality comported itself in a
Western environment. The envelope was addressed to Rosemary Lodge,
Hampstead, and I left Mason's Hotel in the Strand, on a beautiful day in
late autumn, and took the Hamstead bus in Trafalgar Square. It was very
impressive, that ascent of the Northern Heights of London, dragging
through the submerged squalor of Camden Town, up through the dingy
penury of Haverstock Hill, to the clear and cultured prosperity of the
smuggest suburb on earth. I happened to know Hampstead since I had once
met an artist who lived there, though his studio was in Chelsea. I may
tell you about him some day. And when I had walked up the Parliament
Hill Road and started across the Heath to find Rosemary Lodge, I had a
fairly clear notion of what I should find. For of course it was only a
lodge in the peculiar modern English sense. It is part of the harmless
hypocrisy of this modern use of language, that one should live in tiny
flats in London and call them 'mansions' while a large house standing in
its own grounds is styled