ll's house turned into a museum. The rooms are tiny, and most
of the furniture is made to fold up; but Stan would be green with envy
if he could see their Persian rugs, and their silver things, and their
dozens of Meerschaums, and their curiosities from all over the world.

I asked Potter what he would do when he was ordered away.

"That depends on where I'm ordered," said he. "If I don't like the
place, I'll resign, and be a mere cit. It would be easy to get back
again into the Army if there were any fun going."

"What kind of fun?" I wanted to know.

"A war with somebody, of course," said he. Men have the most
extraordinary ideas of fun. But they seem to be alike about that in
England and America. They are never so happy as when they are killing
something or in danger of being killed themselves. I can't imagine how
it would feel to be like that; but I know if they were different we
should hate them. And Potter looked so nice in his soldier clothes
(which he got into while we were making ourselves pretty for lunch)
that I couldn't help thinking it would be a pity for him to leave the
army.

His friend was invited to lunch with us, to make up for sacrificing his
house. He is nicer than Potter, or even Mr. Doremus; but not half so
handsome or brave looking, or with such a charming voice as poor Jim
Brett--who is not, I suppose, a gentleman except by nature; otherwise
he couldn't have been in the steerage.

I thought it was silly to have wire nettings in all the doors and
windows, just to keep away a few innocent midges, until we sat out
after lunch. There is a pleasant balcony with an upstairs and a
downstairs, which Potter and Captain Collingwood call the "piazza," and
it would have been delightful sitting there while the men smoked, if
appalling little animals with a ridiculous number of thin, stick-out
legs hadn't come buzzing round us. They were saucy-looking things, got
up in loud suits of black and grey stripes, not in the least like our
quiet, respectable midges at home; and they weren't even honourable
enough to wait until sunset before attacking you. They pricked
horribly, like pins your maid has stuck in the wrong places; and they
had a horrid _penchant_ for your ankles. I _was_ sorry I had on clocked
stockings! And I apologised heartily to Potter for poking fun at his
wire nettings.

Though it was so hot, the air was delicious. It smelt of new-mown grass
and lilies, with a sharp little spicy tang of th