Peter Jameson was no “hero,” only an average decent human being who had gone out to fight the two-legged Beasts which threatened his country, very much as his ancestors might have gone out to wage war against the four-legged beasts which threatened their caves. And being an average human being, his feelings—as the taxi whirled him Savoy-wards—expressed himself in crude song. “And another little drink wouldn’t do us any harm,” sang Peter Jameson.... It must be admitted that he sang execrably.

He overpaid the driver; swung through the revolving door; turned left past the grill-room; and made for the bar. It was just one o’clock, and the place hummed with drinking men.

“Good God,” said a voice, “here’s old P.J.”

Peter looked up and recognized Major Conway. The big black-haired sportsman stood, riding-cane in one hand, sherry-cobbler in the other, among a little knot of subalterns.

“What’ll you have?” he asked.

Peter decided on a Martini; swigged it down; stood a round to the party.

“When are you coming out again?” said the Major; and being told the news, “Lucky devil. Wish I were out of it. Wish I were lyin’ on a long chair in the Tanglin Club at Singapore, with an ejao at my elbow and a Manila cheroot stuck in my face. You ought to try the F.M.S.,^[15] P.J. This country’s no good for a white man. Too many sanguinary restrictions.”

The subalterns melted away, and the two friends sat down at one of the little round marble-topped tables. “’Nother drink?” suggested Conway. “Champagne cocktail?”

“All right”—Peter nodded to the waiter—“but you’ll lunch with me.”

“Sorry, old thing; but I’ve got a bird meeting me at Romano’s. Can’t afford to waste time on leave. All right for you—you lucky devil—you’re out of it.” He finished his cocktail, strode off.

“Lucky devil?” mused Peter. “I wonder if I am.” The first fine exhilaration of freedom had worn off already. He was “out of it!” He looked down at his cord breeches, his high boots, his chained spurs. “Out of it,” thought Peter. “Cast! like some rotten hairy.^[16]”...

Lunch, alone at a pillar-table in the crammed restaurant, proved an expensive fiasco. The music annoyed, the waiter fidgeted. Half way through, he got an attack of nerves; his left hand shook so that he could hardly hold his fork. Coffee arrived ten minutes after the sweets—stone-cold. Peter paid his bill disgustedly; retrieved cap and cane from the cloak-room; looked up his train; and passed out into the courtyard.

The usual baggage stood piled on the pavement—a miscellaneous collection, “Saratogas,” “Innovations,” flat cabin-trunks and dome-topped portmanteaux.

“People still travelling, I see,” said Peter to the commissionaire.

“Yes, sir. The George Washington arrived yesterday. Taxi, sir?”

“Thanks. No. I’ll walk for a bit.”

Half way down the Strand, another attack of nerves came on. He would be late for his train—he would miss his train. ... “Undoubtedly,” thought Peter, “those chaps were right when they told me to live in the country.”