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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--"

Through the shifting colonnades of pine, a hundred yards in front of us, came two horsemen in the same blue-gray of the pair beside me. "Whoever he is," I said, "that gray he's riding is his second best, or it's borrowed," for his mount, though good, was no match for him.

"Doesn't a good story revive the poetry of our actual lives?" He wiped the rim of his cap with a handkerchief of yellow silk enriched at one corner with needlework.

"Oh, no, not too warm."

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