ng man with the bald head)
sits for Horkey-boro', you know, and will be in the Cabinet with the
next--"

But the Admiral was already hurrying down the street. That very
afternoon he took his family up to Kit's House, to call; and has been
calling at short intervals ever since.

The Goodwyn-Sandys, unless we are sharper than the police, we shall
never see again. So close was the pursuit, however, that they were
forced to leave the portmanteau in the cloak-room at Paddington
Station, where it was discovered and opened. It contained a highly
curious clock-work toy, and enough dynamite to raze St. Paul's to the
ground. Even without exploding, it converted three statesmen to Home
Rule.

Mr. Moggridge's resignation of his post in the Customs was received
without expressed regret. He has since married Sophia Buzza, and
edits a Conservative paper in Wales. I see that another volume of
his verse is in the press. It is to be called "Throbs: and other
Trifles," and will include the epithalamium written by him for his
own nuptials, as well as his "Farewell to Troy!"--a composition which
Mrs. Buzza said she defied "you to read without feeling as if geese
were walking over your grave."

Sam Buzza has gone to College.

And what of Troy Town? By degrees the old phrases, old catch-words,
and old opinions have come to reign again. Troy's unchanged
loveliness too, the daily round full of experiences familiar as old
friends, the dear monotony of sight and sound in the little port--all
have made for healing and oblivion. If you question us on a certain
three months in our life, the chances are you will get no answer.
We have agreed to forget, you see; and so we are beginning to
persuade ourselves, almost, that those months have never been.

Almost. But, as a fact, Mrs. Buzza had been right. "It will never
be the same again-never!" Something we have lost, and I think that
something is Troy. For strangers have come amongst us, and have
formed a society of their own. The Town is grown out of our
knowledge. They have built, and are building, mansions of stucco,
and a hotel of hideous brick; a fifth-rate race-meeting threatens the
antique regatta; and before all this the savour of Trojan life is
departing. Ilion is down, and by no assault of war.

And yet--

The evening before last I passed up the road in front of No. I, Alma
Villas. The air was warm, and through the half-opened window a voice
stole out--

"