evening papers, while one of the porters followed
with my things. There were no changes that I could see, except in myself
as I caught sight of myself in my old office window. The creepers might
have made a modest stride on the Queen Anne houses; brick and tile were
perhaps a mellower red; and more tenants appeared to be growing better
roses in their front gardens. But the place had always been at its best
at the end of May: here was a giant's nosegay of apple-blossom, and
there a glimpse of a horse-chestnut laden like a Christmas-tree with its
cockades of pure cream. One felt the flight of time only at such homely
spectacles as Shoolbred's van, delivering groceries at the house which
Edgar Nettleton had tried to burn down with me in it. And an empty
perambulator, over the way at Berylstow, confirmed the feeling when
Delavoye informed me that the little caller was a remarkable blend of
our old friend Guy Berridge and the whilom Miss Hemming.

Mulcaster Park had moved bodily with the times. It had its asphalt paths
at last. Incidentally I missed some blinds which had been taken over as
tenant's fixtures in my first or second year. The new ones were not red.
The next house lower down had also changed hands; a very striking woman,
in a garden hat, was filling a basket with roses from a William Allen
Richardson which had turned the painted porch into a bower; and instead
of answering a simple question, Uvo stopped and called her to the gate.

"Let me introduce you to Mrs. Ricardo, Gilly," said he, as the lady
joined us with a smile that set me thinking. "Mrs. Ricardo knows all
about you, and was looking forward to seeing the conquering hero come
marching home."

It was not one of Uvo's happiest speeches; but Mrs. Ricardo was neither
embarrassed nor embarrassing in what she found to say to me. I liked her
then and there: in any case I should have admired her. She was a tall
and handsome brunette, with thick eyebrows and that high yet dusky
colouring which reminds one in itself of stormlight and angry skies. But
Mrs. Ricardo seemed the most good-natured of women, anxious at once not
to bore me about my experiences, and yet to let us both see that she
thoroughly appreciated their character.

"You will always be thankful that you went, Mr. Gillon, in spite of
enteric," said Mrs. Ricardo. "The people to pity were those who couldn't
go, but especially the old soldiers, who would have given anything to
have gone."

I had just