t for me on the platform. If I see you first, I'll shout."

Garnet felt that that promise rang true.

"Then good-by for the present. Millie, we must be off. Till to-morrow,
Garnet."

"Good-by, Mr. Garnet," said Mrs. Ukridge.

Looking back at the affair after the lapse of years, Garnet was
accustomed to come to the conclusion that she was the one pathetic
figure in the farce. Under what circumstances she had married Ukridge
he did not learn till later. He was also uncertain whether at any
moment in her career she regretted it. But it was certainly pathetic
to witness her growing bewilderment during the weeks that followed, as
the working of Ukridge's giant mind was unfolded to her little by
little. Life, as Ukridge understood the word, must have struck her as
a shade too full of incident to be really comfortable. Garnet was wont
to console himself by the hope that her very genuine love for her
husband, and his equally genuine love for her, was sufficient to
smooth out the rough places of life.

As he returned to his room, after showing his visitors to the door,
the young man upstairs, who had apparently just finished breakfast,
burst once more into song:

"We'll never come back no more, boys,
We'll never come back no more."

Garnet could hear him wedding appropriate dance to the music.

"Not for a few weeks, at any rate," he said to himself, as he started
his packing at the point where he had left off.

A GIRL WITH BROWN HAIR

III

Waterloo station is one of the things which no fellow can understand.
Thousands come to it, thousands go from it. Porters grow gray-headed
beneath its roof. Buns, once fresh and tender, become hard and
misanthropic in its refreshment rooms, and look as if they had seen
the littleness of existence and were disillusioned. But there the
station stands, year after year, wrapped in a discreet gloom, always
the same, always baffling and inscrutable. Not even the porters
understand it. "I couldn't say, sir," is the civil but unsatisfying
reply with which research is met. Now and then one, more gifted than
his colleagues, will inform the traveler that his train starts from
"No. 3 or No. 7," but a moment's reflection and he hedges with No. 12.

Waterloo is the home of imperfect knowledge. The booking clerks cannot
state in a few words where tickets may be bought for any station. They
are only certain that they themselves cannot sell them.

* * *