yptian Army.

"_I can make room for you, but you must apply immediately to
be transferred._"

Hardiman sat down in a chair by the side of the table against the wall,
with his eyes on Luttrell's face. He was a big, softish, overfed man of
forty-five, and the moment he began to relax from the upright position,
his body went with a run; he collapsed rather than sat. The little veins
were beginning to show like tiny scarlet threads across his nose and on
the fullness of his cheeks; his face was the colour of wine; and the
pupils of his pale eyes were ringed with so pronounced an _arcus
senilis_ that they commanded the attention like a disfigurement. But the
eyes were shrewd and kindly enough as they dwelt upon the troubled face
of his guest.

"You have not answered this?" he asked.

"No. But I must send an answer to-night."

"You are in doubt?"

"Yes. I was quite sure when I cabled to Cairo on the second day of the
games. I was quite sure, whilst I waited for the reply. Now that the
reply has come--I don't know."

"Let me hear," said the older man. "The launch must wait, the table at
the Hasselbacken restaurant must be assigned, if need be, to other
customers." Hardiman had not swamped all his kindliness in good living.
Luttrell was face to face with one of the few grave decisions which
each man has in the course of his life to make; and Hardiman understood
his need better than he understood it himself. His need was to formulate
aloud the case for and against, to another person, not so much that he
might receive advice as, that he might see for himself with truer eyes.

"The one side is clear enough," said Luttrell with a trace of
bitterness. "There was a Major I once heard of at Dover. He trained his
company in night-marches by daylight. The men held a rope to guide them
and were ordered to shut their eyes. The Major, you see, hated stirring
out at night. He liked his bridge and his bottle of port. Well, give me
another year and that's the kind of soldier I shall become--the worst
kind--the slovenly soldier. I mean slovenly in mind, in intention. Even
now I come, already bored, to the barrack square and watch the time to
see if I can't catch an earlier train from Gravesend to London."

"And when you do?" asked Hardiman.

Luttrell nodded.

"When I do," he agreed, "I get no thrill out of my escape, I assure you.
I hate myself a little more--that's all."

"Yes," said Hardiman. He was too wise a man to