hardships, equal to any emergency. Already one seemed to see the
clothes and habits of civilization falling away from him, the former
to be replaced by the stern, unlovely outfit of the war correspondent
who plays the game. They crowded round him in the club smoking room,
for these were his last few minutes. They had dined him, toasted him,
and the club loving cup had been drained to his success and his safe
return. For Lovell was a popular member of this very Bohemian
gathering, and he was going to the Far East, at a few hours' notice,
to represent one of the greatest of English dailies.

A pale, slight young man, who stood at this right hand, was speaking.
His name was Walter Aynesworth, and he was a writer of short stories--
a novelist in embryo.

"What I envy you most, Lovell," he declared, "is your escape from the
deadly routine of our day by day life. Here in London it seems to me
that we live the life of automatons. We lunch, we dine, we amuse or we
bore ourselves, and we sleep--and all the rest of the world does the
same. Passion we have outgrown, emotion we have destroyed by analysis.
The storms which shake humanity break over other countries. What is
there left to us of life? Civilization ministers too easily to our
needs, existence has become a habit. No wonder that we are a tired
race."

"Life is the same, the world over," another man remarked. "With every
forward step in civilization, life must become more mechanical. London
is no worse than Paris, or Paris than Tokyo."

Aynesworth shook his head. "I don't agree with you," he replied. "It
is the same, more or less, with all European countries, but the Saxon