s,
and very, very bright--I saw you--saw you--and the roses--"

She paused with a pained, puzzled look of appeal.

"Where was it, Phil?"

"In Manila town."

"Yes; and there were roses. But I was never there."

"You came out on the veranda and pelted me with roses. There were others
there--officers and their wives. Everybody was laughing."

"Yes--but I was not there, Phil. . . . Who--who was the tall, thin
bugler who sounded taps?"

"Corrigan."

"And--the little, girl-shaped, brown men?"

"My constabulary."

"I can't recollect," she said listlessly, laying the doll against her
breast. "I think, Phil, that you had better be a little quiet now--she
may wish to sleep. And I am sleepy, too," lifting her slender hand as a
sign for him to take his leave.

As he went out the nurse said: "If you wish to return to town, you may,
I think. She will forget about you for two or three days, as usual.
Shall I telegraph if she becomes restless?"

"Yes. What does the doctor say to-day?"

The slim nurse looked at him under level brows.

"There is no change," she said.

"No hope." It was not even a question.

"No hope, Captain Selwyn."

He stood silent, tapping his leg with the stiff brim of his hat; then,
wearily: "Is there anything more I can do for her?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Thank you."

He turned away, bidding her good-night in a low voice.

* * * * *

He arrived in town about midnight, but did not go to any of his clubs.
At one of them a telegram was awaiting him; and in a dismantled and
summer-shrouded house a young girl was still expecting him, lying with
closed eyes in a big holland-covered arm-chair, listening to the rare
footfalls in the street outside.

But of these things he knew nothing; and he went wearily to his lodgings
and climbed the musty stairs, and sat down in his old attitude before
the table and the blank wall behind it, waiting for the magic frescoes
to appear in all the vague loveliness of their hues and dyes, painting
for him upon his chamber-walls the tinted paradise now lost to him for
ever.

CHAPTER XI

HIS OWN WAY

The winter promised to be a busy one for Selwyn. If at first he had had
any dread of enforced idleness, that worry, at least, vanished before
the first snow flew. For there came to him a secret communication from
the Government suggesting, among other things, that he report, three
times a week, at the proving grounds on Sandy