friend! If Mercutio wins," he repeated solemnly, "I will stand
you the finest dinner that can be secured this side of Romano's."

CHAPTER VI

THE SOUL OF THE NATIVE WOMAN

Mail day is ever a day of supreme interest for the young and for the
matter of that for the middle-aged, too. Sanders hated mail days because
the bulk of his correspondence had to do with Government, and Government
never sat down with a pen in its hand to wish Sanders many happy returns
of the day or to tell him scandalous stories about mutual friends.

Rather the Government (by inference) told him scandalous stories about
himself--of work not completed to the satisfaction of Downing Street--a
thoroughfare given to expecting miracles.

Hamilton had a sister who wrote wittily and charmingly every week, and
there was another girl ... Still, two letters and a bright pink paper or
two made a modest postbag by the side of Lieutenant Tibbetts' mail.

There came to Bones every mail day a thick wad of letters and parcels
innumerable, and he could sit at the big table for hours on end,
whistling a little out of tune, mumbling incoherently. He had a trick of
commenting upon his letters aloud, which was very disconcerting for
Hamilton. Bones wouldn't open a letter and get half-way through it
before he began his commenting.

"... poor soul ... dear! dear! ... what a silly old ass ... ah, would
you ... don't do it, Billy...."

To Hamilton's eyes the bulk of correspondence rather increased than
diminished.

"You must owe a lot of money," he said one day.

"Eh!"

"All these...!" Hamilton opened his hand to a floor littered with
discarded envelopes. "I suppose they represent demands...."

"Dear lad," said Bones brightly, "they represent popularity--I'm
immensely popular, sir," he gulped a little as he fished out two dainty
envelopes from the pile before him; "you may not have experienced the
sensation, but I assure you, sir, it's pleasing, it's doocidly
pleasing!"

"Complacent ass," said Hamilton, and returned to his own correspondence.

Systematically Bones went through his letters, now and again consulting
a neat little morocco-covered note-book. (It would appear he kept a very
careful record of every letter he wrote home, its contents, the date of
its dispatch, and the reply thereto.) He had reduced letter writing to a
passion, spent most of his evenings writing long epistles to his
friends--mostly ladies of a tender age--and had incidenta