of the bamboos and camellia bushes before the orderly arrived with the
bag. Bottles went at once into the room that opened on to the veranda
and stood by calmly, not being given to betraying his emotions, while
slowly and clumsily the mess sergeant sorted the letters. At last he
got his packet--it only consisted of some newspapers and a single
letter--and went away back to his seat on the veranda, feeling rather
disappointed, for he had expected to hear from his only brother as well
as from his lady-love. Having relit his pipe--for he was of a slow
and deliberate mind, and it rather enhances a pleasure to defer it a
little--and settled himself in the big chair opposite the camellia bush
just now covered with sealing-wax-like blooms, he opened his letter and
read:--


"My dear George----"


"Good heavens!" he thought to himself, "what can be the matter? She
always calls me 'Darling Bottles!'"


"My dear George," he began again, "I hardly know how to begin this
letter--I can scarcely see the paper for crying, and when I think of you
reading it out in that horrid country it makes me cry more than ever.
There! I may as well get it out at once, for it does not improve by
keeping--it is all over between you and me, my dear, dear old Bottles."


"All over!" he gasped to himself.