e spectacle no longer.

Again the false nose hopped by, and this time disengaged himself
hurriedly from his partner and hastened after the retiring Colonel.

"You're not going, Charlie?" he cried.

His friend turned and stared at him piteously.

"For Heaven's sake, take off that nose, Heriot!"

The W.S. removed it with a laugh.

"Put it on yourself, Charlie, and have a turn with my partner," he
urged. "She dances really magnificently, you know."

Colonel Munro laid his hand beseechingly upon his arm.

"Come home, Heriot! You'll be devilish sorry for this to-morrow, as it
is; and if you dance any more, by Gad, you may kill yourself! My dear
fellow, think of your age."

Heriot received this objection with a cheerful laugh.

"You're not going yourself, surely?" he inquired.

"I am."

Mr. Walkingshaw looked at him anxiously.

"I say, you do look tired, Charlie. How's that?"

"I am sixty-three," replied the Colonel, with an instinctive lowering of
his voice. He never stated his age if he could help it.

Mr. Walkingshaw continued to gaze at him oddly.

"I had forgotten how one feels at that time of life," he said musingly,
"quite forgotten. Poor old Charlie; I oughtn't to have kept you up so
late. I'd have felt like that at sixty-three myself. Well, my dear
fellow, I'm glad we were able to have this night together before it
became too late. It has made me feel quite old again to see you."

Colonel Munro seized his arm and drew him towards the door, with all the
vehemence of which he was capable.

"Come along--come along, Heriot!" he implored him; "you have had a
little more to drink than you quite realize!"

Heriot disengaged himself very easily from his trembling grip.

"My poor old boy," he smiled, "I'm as sober as you were when you
started! I positively require the exercise. Besides, you must remember
that this sort of thing is only just beginning for me; don't grudge me
my fling. Get you to bed as quick as you can, Charlie. Sleep is what
you're needing."

"And do you know what you need?" exclaimed the Colonel, with another
grab at his sleeve.

"A taste of life!" cried Heriot, evading his old fingers with wonderful
agility, and slipping on his pasteboard nose.

He waved a gay farewell, threw his arm round the waist of the hot
cross-bun, and waltzed out of the Colonel's vision.

It was not till two hours later that Heriot Walkingshaw, smiling with
reminiscent pleasure and perspiring freely, set