think, that you had never been in love?"

Dickson replied in the native fashion. "Have you?" he asked.

"I have, and I am--been for two years. I was down with my battalion
on the Italian front early in 1918, and because I could speak the
language they hoicked me out and sent me to Rome on a liaison job.
It was Easter time and fine weather, and, being glad to get out of
the trenches, I was pretty well pleased with myself and enjoying
life....In the place where I stayed there was a girl. She was a
Russian, a princess of a great family, but a refugee, and of course
as poor as sin....I remember how badly dressed she was among all the
well-to-do Romans. But, my God, what a beauty! There was never
anything in the world like her.... She was little more than a child,
and she used to sing that air in the morning as she went down the
stairs....They sent me back to the front before I had a chance of
getting to know her, but she used to give me little timid good
mornings, and her voice and eyes were like an angel's....I'm over my
head in love, but it's hopeless, quite hopeless. I shall never see
her again."

"I'm sure I'm honoured by your confidence," said Dickson reverently.

The Poet, who seemed to draw exhilaration from the memory of his
sorrows, arose and fetched him a clout on the back. "Don't talk of
confidence, as if you were a reporter," he said. "What about that
House? If we're to see it before the dark comes we'd better hustle."

The green slopes on their left, as they ran seaward, were clothed
towards their summit with a tangle of broom and light scrub.