er all, he was here for a cure and a rest, and he had always
believed in women as recreations.

His solitary table was near theirs in the restaurant, and later he wrote
to his friend, Michael Arranstoun, loitering at Ostende:

The hotel is quite decent--and after your long sojourn in the
wilds, you will have an overdose of polo and expensive ladies and
baccarat. You had much better join me here at the end of the week.
There are two pretty women who would be quite your affair. They
have the next table, and neither of them can be taking the cure.

But Mr. Arranstoun, when he received this missive, had other things to
do. He had been out of England, and indeed Europe, for nearly five
years--having, in the summer of 1907, joined a friend to explore the
innermost borders of China and Tibet, and there the passion for this
kind of thing had overtaken him, and his own home knew him no more.

Now, however, he had announced that he had returned for good, and
intended to spend the rest of his days at Arranstoun as a model
landlord.

He started this by playing polo at Ostende, where he had run across
Henry Fordyce. They had cordially grasped each other's hands, their
estrangement forgotten when face to face; and the only mention there had
been of the circumstances which had caused their parting were in a few
sentences.

"By Jove, Henry, it is five whole years since you thundered morals at me
and shook the dust of Arranstoun from your feet!"

"You did behave abominably, Michael--but I am awfully glad to see
you--and the scene at Ebbsworth, when Violet Hatfield read the notice in
the Scotsman of your marriage, made me feel you had been almost
justified in taking any course you could to make yourself safe. But how
about your wife? Have you ever seen her again?"

"No. My lawyer tells me I can divorce her now for desertion. I should
have to make some pretence of asking her to return to me, he says, which
of course she would refuse to do--and then both can be free, but, for my
part, I am not hankering after freedom much--I do very well as I am--and
I always cherish a rather tender recollection of her."

[Illustration: "His solitary table was near theirs in the restaurant"]

Henry laughed.

"I have often pictured that wedding," he said, "and the little bride
going off with her certificate and your name all alone. No family turned
up awkwardly at the last moment to mar things; she left safely after the