not the Signor's only accomplishment. I knew Strobo well; many a
special dish had he ordered for my little parties; and we met at
Armour's fireside like the genial old acquaintances we were.
Another voice without and presently I was nodding to Rosario and
vaguely wondering why he looked uncomfortable.

'I'm sorry,' said Armour, as we sat down, 'I've got nothing but
beer. If I had known you were all coming, no vintage that crawls up
the hill would have been good enough for me.' He threw the bond of
his wonderful smile round us as we swallowed his stuff, and our
hearts were lightened. 'You fellows,' he went on nodding at the
other two, 'might happen any day, but my friend John Philips comes
to me across aerial spaces; he is a star I've trapped--you don't do
that often. Pilsener, John Philips, or Black?' He was helping his
only servant by pouring out the beer himself, and as I declared for
Black he slapped me affectionately on the back and said my choice
was good.

The last person who had slapped me on the back was Lord Dufferin,
and I smiled softly and privately at the remembrance, and what a
difference there was. I had resented Dufferin's slap.

We had spiced hump and jungle-fowl and a Normandy cheese, everybody
will understand that; but how shall I make plain with what
exultation and simplicity we ate and drank, how the four candid
selves of us sat around the table in a cloud of tobacco and cheered
each other on, Armour always far in front turning handsprings as he
went. Scraps come back to me, but the whole queer night has receded
and taken its place among those dreams that insist at times upon
having been realities. Rosario told us stories Kipling might have