her quarters.
While I stayed here I was the guest of the Firefly of France; and though
I admired him,--I should have been a cad, a quitter, a poor loser,
everything I had ever held anathema in days gone by, not to do
so,--still I couldn't feel toward him as a man should feel toward his
host; not in the least!

On three separate occasions Dunny motored up to Paris, bringing back
as the fruits of his first excursion my baggage from the Ritz. I was
clothed again, in my right mind; except for my swathed head, I looked
highly civilized. The day when I had raced hither and yon, and fought an
unbelievable battle in a dark hall, and insanely masqueraded first in
a leather coat, then in a pale-blue uniform, seemed dim and far-off
indeed.

"It was a nice hashish dream," I told my mirrored image. "But it wasn't
real, my lad, for a moment; such things don't happen to folks like you.
You're not the romantic type; you don't look like some one in an
old picture; you haven't brought down thirty German aeroplanes or
thereabouts, and won every war medal the French can give and the name of
Ace. No; you look like a--a correct bulldog; and winning an occasional
polo cup is about your limit. Even if it hadn't been settled before you
met her, you wouldn't have stood a chance."

There were times when I prayed never to see Esme Falconer again. There
were other times when I knew I would drag myself round the world--yes,
on my crutches!--if at the end of the journey I could see her for an
instant, a long way off. I could see that my despondency was driving
Dunny to distraction. He evolved the theory that I was going into a
decline.

Then came the afternoon that made history. I was sitting at my window.
The trees seemed specially green, the sky specially blue, the lake
specially bright. I was feeling stronger and was glumly planning a move
to Paris when I saw an automobile speed up the poplared walk toward
Raincy-la-Tour.

Rip-snorting and chugging, the thing executed a curve before the
chateau, and then, hugging the side of the lake, advanced, obviously
toward my humble abode. My heart seemed to turn a somersault. I should
have known that car if I had met it in Bagdad. It was a long blue motor,
polished to the last notch, deeply cushioned, luxurious, poignantly
familiar, the car, in short, that I had pursued to Bleau, and that
later, in flat defiance of President Poincare or the Generalissimo
of France, or whoever makes army rules and regu