in
the direction of botany and bibliomancy, which latter, according to the
dictionary, is "Divination performed by selecting passages of Scripture at
hazard." He also indulged in good works and was President of the Society
for the Preservation of the Spiritual Welfare of the Deputy Harbour Masters
at our English Seaports. Thus he was worthy of the name of Angelo by which
his mother had insisted that he should be christened, after seeing a
picture of the famous historical incident of "_Non Angli sed Angeli_."

Strangely enough he had never yet come under the influence of love. The
three diversions given above had filled his spare hours, and woman was to
him a sealed book. One morning he found a letter on his breakfast-table
from an old family friend; it read as follows:--

"_Ton Repos," Woking_,
_December 11th, 1916_.

"DEAR MR. ARMSTRONG,--Do tear yourself away from grimy London and come and
spend the Christmas holidays with us. Only a small party and one of
War-workers. We are all workers nowadays, aren't we? You _must_ come!

Sincerely yours,
AUGUSTA POGSON-DELABERE.

N.B.--Our house is a long way from the Crematorium!

This settled it; he decided to go.

PART II.

The Pogson-Delaberes' party at "Ton Repos" consisted of four guests: Col.
Maxton, from Aldershot, commanding the 106th Battalion of the Drumlie
Highlanders; Miss Agatha Simson, a middle-aged munition-worker; our hero,
and, oh! the lovely Miss Sylvia Taunton, another War-worker, aged 22. The
result may be easily guessed. For two days the young people were left,
naturally, very much together. They quickly fell into an easy intimacy, and
on the third and last day of the holiday Angelo was profoundly in love.
Gone were the botanizers, gone the bibliomants, gone the Deputy Harbour
Masters. There was but one thought in his evacuated brain, to make the fair
Sylvia his own.

His opportunity came after dinner that night when the rest of the party had
gone out to look at some condemned pheasants which were to be shot at dawn.
She was at the piano playing that deservedly popular song, "I've chipped my
chip for England," by Nathaniel Dayer, when he suddenly leant over her.
"Miss Taunton--Sylvia," he ejaculated, "you will be surprised at this
suddenness, I know, but I cannot keep it in any longer; I love you
enormously. Is there any chance for me?"

She had just reached that passage in Nathaniel's song where a triumphant
ascending scale in G rings