is name, Dion Leith, to the manager, learnt that the room
he had ordered was ready for him, had his luggage sent up to it, and
then made his way to the trees on the far side of the broad road which
skirts the hotel. When he was among them he took off his hat, kept it
in his hand, and, so, strolled on down the almost deserted paths. As
he walked he tasted the autumn, not with any sadness, but with an
appreciation that was almost voluptuous. He was at a time of life and
experience, when, if the body is healthy, the soul is untroubled by
care, each season of the year holds its thrill for the strongly beating
heart, its tonic gift for the mind. Falling leaves were handfuls of gold
for this man. The faint chill in the air as evening drew on turned his
thoughts to the brightness and warmth of English fires burning on the
hearths of houses that sheltered dear and protected lives. The far-off
voices of calling children, coming to him from hidden places among the
trees, did not make him pensive because of their contrast with things
that were dying. He hailed them as voices of the youth which lasts in
the world, though the world may seem to be old to those who are old.

Dion Leith had a powerful grip on life and good things. He was young,
just twenty-six, strong and healthy, though slim-built in body,
alert and vigorous in mind, unperturbed in soul, buoyant and warmly
imaginative. Just at that moment the joy of life was almost at full
flood in him, for he had recently been reveling in a new and glorious
experience, and now carried it with him, a precious memory.

He had been traveling, and his wanderings had given him glimpses of two
worlds. In one of these worlds he had looked into the depths, had felt
as if he realized fully for the first time the violence of the angry and
ugly passions that deform life; in the other he had scaled the heights,
had tasted the still purity, the freshness, the exquisite calm, which
are also to be found in life.

He had visited Constantinople and had sailed from it to Greece. From
Greece he had taken ship to Brindisi, and was now on his way home to
England.

What he had thought at the time to be an ill chance had sent him on his
way alone. Guy Daventry, his great friend, who was to go with him, had
been seized by an illness. It was too late then to find another man
free. So, reluctantly, and inclined to grumble a little at fate, Dion
had set off in solitude.

He knew now that his solitude had