a year or so later."

"And then?" I queried, eager for autobiographical revelations.

"Then," said he, "I was a grown up man, able to fend for myself."

That was all I could get out of him, without allowing natural curiosity to
outrun discretion. He changed the conversation to the war, to the France
about which I, a very elderly Captain--have I not confessed to early
twenties thirty years before?--was travelling most uncomfortably, doing
queer odd jobs as a nominal liaison officer on the Quartermaster-General's
staff. His intimacy with the country was amazing. Multiply Sam Weller's
extensive and peculiar knowledge of London by a thousand, and you shall
form some idea of Colonel Lackaday's acquaintance with the inns of
provincial France. He could even trot out the family skeletons of the
innkeepers. In this he became animated and amusing. His features assumed an
actor's mobility foreign to their previous military sedateness, and he used
his delicate hands in expressive gestures. In parenthesis I may say we had
left the week-end party at their bridge or flirtation (according to age) in
the drawing-room, neither pursuits having for us great attraction, in spite
of Lady Auriol Dayne, of whom more hereafter, and we had found our way to
cooling drinks and excellent cigars in our host's library. It was the first
time we had exchanged more than a dozen words, for we had only arrived
that Saturday afternoon. But after the amazing mutual recognition, we sat
luxuriously chaired, excellent friends, and I, for my part, enjoying his
society.

"Ah!" said he, "Montelimar. I know that hotel. _Infect_. And the
_patron_, eh? You remember him. Forty stone. Phoo!"