ne in which Mr.
Dainopoulos uttered the word "wife" precluded anything of this sort. It
was a tone which Mr. Spokesly immediately comprehended. It was the tone
in which Englishmen refer to their most valued possession and their
embodied ideals. There is no mistaking it. There is nothing like it in
the world. It is a tone implying an authorized and expurgated edition of
the speaker's emotional odyssey.

"And so," he went on, "you can see how I don't want to get mixed up in
any of these here places." And he opened his hand towards the subdued
glare of the cafes and dance halls. Mr. Spokesly saw. He saw also, in
imagination, Archy Bates sitting, hand to moustache, amid the
chalk-faced hetairai of Saloniki, second-rate harpies who had had their
day on the Parisian _trottoirs_, and who had been shipped by a
benevolent government to assuage the ennui of the _Armee d'Orient_. He
saw them from time to time with his physical eyes, too, as they came to
the doors of their refuges and, setting off to visit confederates, flung
a glance of shrewd appraisal towards the passing vehicle.

"Yes," he muttered. "I see, Mr.--Mr.----"

"Dainopoulos," said that gentleman.

"Mr. Dainopoulos, I'm no saint, y'understand, but all the same--well, a
man wants something, y'understand? Besides," added Mr. Spokesly, "'twixt
you an' me an' the stern-post, I'm engaged."

"You don't tell me!" exclaimed Mr. Dainopoulos in that peculiarly
gratifying fashion which seemed to imply that this was the first
betrothal announced since the Fall of Constantinople. "You don't
tell--and I bet you what you like she's English, eh?"

"Yes, she's English all right," said Mr. Spokesly, feeling somewhat
embarrassed by his friend's triumphant cordiality. "Pretty safe bet,
that," he added as the carriage stopped in front of a black, solid
wooden gate in a high yellow wall.

"Safe enough?" laughed Mr. Dainopoulos, not quite seizing the point
intended. "Why, sure! Englishwomen are the best of all. I ought to know.
Ha-ha!" and he slapped Mr. Spokesly's knee while his other hand sought
the price of the ride. Mr. Spokesly failed to appreciate this approval
of Englishwomen. A suspicion shot through his mind. He looked at the
dark gate in the yellow wall. What, precisely, did this man mean by that
last remark? Was all this talk of family and so forth a blind? Was he,
Mr. Spokesly, on the brink of an adventure? It must be confessed that he
would not have objected to that; bu