would
sometimes go to his head, and so when Inez was fatigued on land or ill
at sea, and on her account he had ordered champagne, he merely sipped
it, as it were, for her sake. There stood the generous flask still
beaded with its icy dew, but most of its contents were gone. So was
Inez. That waiter had then the proverbial "cheek" of his class--to drink
half their wine and offer the signor the dregs. No, he wished no wine.
Where was the signora? The signora, with the signorino, said the waiter,
had been there but the moment before. The signora had reentered her
apartment as the signor ascended. Dwight tapped at her window, and
presently her voice answered him, in apparent exasperation. She had been
having "no end of bother" changing her gown. She couldn't come down to
meet his friends in the dusty traveling suit she had worn all day. She
had hunted through two trunks before she found what she needed, and was
so sorry for the delay, but she heard the party was to dine there. She
had a maid to help her now, so she was trying to look her best and be
worthy of him. Could he help in some way? Oh, dear no. Run back to them,
there's a good boy, and in a few minutes she would be there.

So Dwight returned to the laughing party and went with them to their
table and sat with them--an odd group in their service-worn suits of
khaki amid the sumptuously attired guests in the brilliant room. Yet
even among the wearers of the handsome Italian uniform the incessant
glances toward the American party were far from critical. These men had
but recently seen sharp service, and soldiers respect and envy soldier
achievement. It was Dwight who first missed and asked for Ray. Ray? Why,
Ray wasn't of our party. Ray wasn't of any party, in fact. Ray was "off
his feed, if not off his base." The fellow was utterly hipped, said
Foster. "No more like his father than I to Hercules, and nobody knows
why." Ray came ashore with the rest of the crowd, had business at Cook's
Bank, wandered off by himself and had been mooning by himself most of
the voyage. Foster buried his muzzle deep in his brimming glass of
Chianti and didn't care a billy what had become of young Ray. Gone back
to the ship, probably, to sit and sulk the rest of the voyage. Obviously
the quartette was out for pleasure, and Ray would have been a
spoil-sport. None the less, Dwight felt that he should find him, if
possible, and so went to the office. But assuredly, said the smiling,
gold-ban