lemon-flavoured icicles and their hair is whitened with sugared rime.

There it was that Frederick discovered Percival feebly and mournfully
pecking at a vanilla ice.

"Greeting, old Spartan," said he. "Training for the Murman coast?"

"Would that I were!" replied Percival. "I'm refrigerating my sorrows.
I've tried to drown them, but they float; so I'm by way of freezing them
under."

"Poor Perce!" murmured Frederick. "I suppose it's Cox again?"

"_Au contraire_, I'm _his_ sorrow. My present trouble is that I've got
to find a wife."

"Nothin' easier, old thing. Your photo in the illustrated papers, with
appropriate letterpress--"

"You misunderstand me," interrupted Percival. "It's someone else's wife
I've got to find. _Écoutez_. Teddy Roker has got permission for his wife
to visit him out here. He's expecting her by this afternoon's boat and
has got a billet fixed up all right, but he's been suddenly rushed away
on a court-martial case, so he's asked me to meet her, and I've never
seen her before."

"But didn't he give you the specifications--kind of descriptive return?"

"That's just it!" groaned Percival. "He was only married last leave, and
his description goes like a Shakspearean sonnet. I gather that I've got