in astonishment.

"Friday? Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir, Friday, sir. What does the paper say, sir?"

"Oh, yes, of course. All right."

He had gone to bed on Wednesday night. He knew that because he
remembered the date of his letter to Commander Howard Vincent, R. N.
R. He made the astounding discovery that he had slept just forty-four
hours. Then he made a second discovery and that was that of his precious
eight days' leave, three were already gone.

After he had dined he inquired at the desk for his mail, and searched
through the telegrams, but there was nothing for him.

Then he betook himself to the streets, aware that the spectre of
loneliness was hard on his trail, and swiftly catching up with him.
London was roaring around him in the dark, like a jungle full of wild
beasts, of whose shapes he could catch now and then horrid glimpses.
Among all the millions in the city, he knew of no living soul to whom he
could go for companionship, nor was there anything in form of amusement
that specially invited him.

There was Grand Opera, of course, but from its associations with his
father he knew that that would bring him only acute misery. Gladly would
he have gone to the hospitals, but they would be shut against him at
this hour. He bought an evening paper, and under a shaded lamp studied
the amusement columns. Some of the Revues he knew to be simply tiresome,
others disgusting. None of them appealed to him. Aimlessly he wandered
along the streets, heedless of his direction, conscious now and then of
an additional pang of wretchedness as he caught a glimpse now and then
at a theatre door of young officers passing in with sweet faced girls on
their arms.

At length in desperation he followed one such pair, and found himself
listening to Cinderella. Its light and delicate fancy, its sweet pathos,
its gentle humour lured him temporarily from his misery, but often there
came back upon him the bitter memory of his comrades in their horrid
environment of filth, danger and wretchedness.

He found some compensation in the thought that these officers beside him
were like himself on leave, and while he envied them, he did not grudge
them their delight in the play, and their obviously greater delight in
their lovely companions beside them, but this again was neutralised by
the bitter recollection of his own hard fate which denied him a like
joy.

After the play he stood in the entrance hall, observing the crowd,
indulging