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"Has he a taste for fiction?" I asked, with a depreciative smirk.

The aide-de-camp laughed like a rustic and vanished. "Smith," said the Major, "your eyes are--"

We listened again. "They've gone the wrong way," I said, still savage.

She backed half a step, and quite needlessly I let it go. Then she bade me not forget I had promised her the words of a certain song. "Want them? Indeed, yes! Did you not say it was an unpublished song written by a messmate of yours?--oh, Mr. Smith! I see why you stammer! You said 'a member of your mess'! oh!--oh!--oh!--you wrote it, yourself! And you wrote it to-day! That explains--" She drew an awesome breath, rose to her toes and knit her knuckles under her throat.

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