ure herself.

When the ladies had retired, the Colonel handed James an execrable
cigar.

"Now, I'm going to give you some very special port I've got," he said.

He poured out a glass with extreme care, and passed it over with evident
pride. James remembered Mary's story of the doctor, and having tasted
the wine, entirely sympathised with him. It was no wonder that invalids
did not thrive upon it.

"Fine wine, isn't it?" said Colonel Clibborn. "Had it in my cellar for
years." He shook it so as to inhale the aroma. "I got it from my old
friend, the Duke of St. Olphert's. 'Reggie, my boy,' he said--'Reggie,
do you want some good port?' 'Good port, Bill!' I cried--I always called
him Bill, you know; his Christian name was William--'I should think I
do, Billy, old boy.' 'Well,' said the Duke, 'I've got some I can let you
have.'"

"He was a wine-merchant, was he?" asked James.

"Wine-merchant! My dear fellow, he was the Duke of St. Olphert's. He'd
bought up the cellar of an Austrian nobleman, and he had more port than
he wanted."

"And this is some of it?" asked James, gravely, holding the murky fluid
to the light.

Then the Colonel stretched his legs and began to talk of the war. James,
rather tired of the subject, sought to change the conversation; but
Colonel Clibborn was anxious to tell one who had been through it how the
thing should have been conducted; so his guest, with a mixture of
astonishment and indignation, resigned himself to listen to the most
pitiful inanities. He marvelled that a man should have spent his life in
the service, and yet apparently be ignorant of the very elements of
warfare; but having already learnt to hold his tongue, he let the
Colonel talk, and was presently rewarded by a break. Something reminded
the gallant cavalryman of a hoary anecdote, and he gave James that
dreary round of stories which have dragged their heavy feet for thirty
years from garrison to garrison. Then, naturally, he proceeded to the
account of his own youthful conquests. The Colonel had evidently been a
devil with the ladies, for he knew all about the forgotten
ballet-dancers of the seventies, and related with gusto a number of
scabrous tales.

"Ah, my boy, in my day we went the pace! I tell you in confidence, I was
a deuce of a rake before I got married."

When they returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Clibborn was ready with her
langorous smile, and made James sit beside her on the sofa. In a few
minutes the