ired by another sort of enthusiasm, an enthusiasm
which would sooner or later mean voluntary or enforced exile for his
part, and the probable breaking up of her own social plans and ambitions.

But Cicely knew something of the futility of improvising objections where
no real obstacle exists. The visit to Torywood was a graceful attention
on Yeovil's part to an old friend; there was no decent ground on which it
could be opposed. If the influence of that visit came athwart Yeovil's
life and hers with disastrous effect, that was "Kismet."

And once again the reek from her burned and smouldering boats mingled
threateningly with the incense fumes of her Te Deum for victory. She
left the room, and Yeovil turned once more to an item of news in the
morning's papers that had already arrested his attention. The Imperial
Aufklarung on the subject of military service was to be made public in
the course of the day.

CHAPTER XI: THE TEA SHOP

Yeovil wandered down Piccadilly that afternoon in a spirit of
restlessness and expectancy. The long-awaited Aufklarung dealing with
the new law of military service had not yet appeared; at any moment he
might meet the hoarse-throated newsboys running along with their papers,
announcing the special edition which would give the terms of the edict to
the public. Every sound or movement that detached itself with isolated
significance from the general whirr and scurry of the streets seemed to
Yeovil to herald the oncoming clamour and rush that he was looking for.
But the long endless succession of motors and 'buses and vans went by,
hooting and grunting, and such newsboys as were to be seen hung about
listlessly, bearing no more attractive bait on their posters than the
announcement of an "earthquake shock in Hungary: feared loss of life."

The Green Park end of Piccadilly was a changed, and in some respects a
livelier thoroughfare to that which Yeovil remembered with affectionate
regret. A great political club had migrated from its palatial home to a
shrunken habitation in a less prosperous quarter; its place was filled by
the flamboyant frontage of the Hotel Konstantinopel. Gorgeous Turkey
carpets were spread over the wide entrance steps, and boys in Circassian
and Anatolian costumes hung around the doors, or dashed forth in
un-Oriental haste to carry such messages as the telephone was unable to
transmit. Picturesque sellers of Turkish delight, attar-of-roses, and
brass-work co