ved along the platform in the direction of the guard's van, which was
apparently laden with an incredible number of empty and resonant milk
cans. The porter whom he had hailed, a morbid spirit who might suitably
have posed for Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, approached regretfully.

"'Ow many?" he inquired. "Got the ticket?"

He did not disguise his hopes that it might prove to be lost, but they
were shattered when the luggage ticket was produced from Flamby's black
glove, and in due course the antique cabin-trunk made its appearance.
That it was an authentic relic of Duveen's earlier days was testified by
the faded labels, which still clung to it and which presented an
illustrated itinerary of travels extending from Paris to New Orleans,
Moscow to Shanghai. The new label, "London Bridge," offered a shocking
anti-climax. Trundled by the regretful porter the grip and the trunk
were borne out into the drizzle, Don and Flamby following; a taxi-cab
was found, and Don gave the address of The Hostel. Then, allowing Flamby
no time for comment, he began talking at once about the place for which
they were bound.

"Mr. Nevin selected The Hostel as an ideal spot," he said, "where you
would be free from interference and able to live your own life. He was
influenced, too, by the fact that I have an aunt living there, a Mrs.
Chumley, one of the most delightful old souls you could wish to meet."

Flamby was watching him all the time, and presently she spoke. "Are you
quite sure, Captain Courtier, that the money from the War Office will be
enough to pay for all this?"

Don waved his hand carelessly. "Ample," he declared. "The idea of The
Hostel, which was founded by Lady Something-or-other, is to afford a
residence for folks placed just as you are; not overburdened with
means--you see? Of course, some of the tenants are queer fish, and as
respectable as those dear old ladies who live amongst the ghosts at
Hampton Court. But there are a number of women writers and students, and
so forth: you will be quite at home in no time."

Flamby glanced down at the black dress, which she had made, and had made
tastefully and well, but which to its critical creator looked painfully
unfinished. "I feel a freak," she said. "Dad didn't believe in mourning,
but they would have burned me alive at Lower Charleswood if I hadn't
gone into black. Do you believe in mourning?"

"Well," replied Don, "to me it seems essentially a concession to popular
opinio