"_Au revoir_, Dunny. Back next year," I shouted cheerily as the driver
threw in his clutch and the car glided on its way.

Preceded by various porters, I threaded my way at a snail's pace through
the dense crowd of waiting passengers, swarthy-faced sons of Italy,
apparently bound for the steerage. The great gray bulk of the _Re
d'Italia_ loomed before me, floating proudly at her stern the green,
white, and red flag blazoned with the Savoyard shield.

"Wave while they let you," I apostrophized it, saluting. "When we get
outside the three-mile limit and stop courting notice, you'll not fly
long."

At the gang-plank I was halted, and I produced my passport and exhibited
the _vise_ of his excellency, the Italian consul-general in New York.
I strolled aboard, was assigned to Cabin D, and informed by my steward
that there were in all but five first-class passengers, a piece of news
that left me calm. Stodgy I may be,--it was odd how that term of Dunny's
rankled,--but I confess that I find chance traveling acquaintances
boring and avoid them when I can. Unlike most of my countrymen, I
suppose I am not gregarious, though I dine and week-end punctiliously,
send flowers and leave cards at decorous intervals, and know people all
the way from New York to Tokio.

My carefully limited baggage looked lonely in my cabin; I missed the
paraphernalia with which one usually begins a trip. Also, as I rummaged
through two bags to find the cap I wanted, I longed for Peters, my
faithful man, who could be backed to produce any desired thing at a
moment's notice. When bound for Flanders or the Vosges, however, one