ots going on down at Palermo, Malta, Monte Carlo, or
over at Algiers, and yet we can never get a chance of it. We're always
in sight of the gay places, and never land. I don't blame the youngsters
for getting off from Leghorn for two days over here in town when they
can. Three years is a bigger slice out of a fellow's life than anyone
would suppose. But, by the way, I saw Hutcheson the other day. We put
into Spezia, and he came out to see the Admiral--got despatches for
him, I think. He seems as gay as ever. He lunched at mess, and said how
sorry he was you'd deserted Leghorn."

"I haven't exactly deserted it," I said. "But I really don't love it
like he does."

"No. A year or two of the Mediterranean blue is quite sufficient to last
any fellow his lifetime. I shouldn't live in Leghorn if I had my choice.
I'd prefer somewhere up in the mountains, beyond Pisa, or outside
Florence, where you can have a good time in winter."

Then a silence fell between us, and I sat eating on until the end of the
meal, wondering how to broach the question I so desired to put to him.

"I shall try if I can get on recruiting service at home for a bit," he
said presently. "There's an appointment up in Glasgow vacant, and I
shall try for it. It'll be better, at any rate, than China or the
Pacific."

I was just about to turn the conversation to the visit of the mysterious
_Lola_ to Leghorn, when two men he knew entered the dining-room, and,
recognizing him, came across to give him a welcome home. One of the
newcomers was Major Bartlett, whom I at once recollected as having been
a guest of Leithcourt's up at Rannoch, and the other a younger man whom
Durnford introduced to me as Captain Hanbury.

"Oh, Major!" I cried, rising and grasping his hand. "I haven't seen you
since Scotland, and the extraordinary ending to your house-party."

"No," he laughed. "It was an amazing affair, wasn't it? After the
Leithcourts left it was like pandemonium let loose; the guests collared
everything they could lay their hands upon! It's a wonder to me the
disgraceful affair didn't get into the papers."

"But where's Leithcourt now?" I asked anxiously.

"Haven't the ghost of an idea," replied the Major, standing astride with
his hands in his pockets. "Young Paget of ours told me the other day
that he saw Muriel driving in the Terminus Road at Eastbourne, but she
didn't notice him. They were a queerish lot, those Leithcourts," he
added.

"Hulloa! What are