I don't know--I'd be happy enough, if I were you--always seem to come
out on top--not to care for any damn thing on earth, except that--not
even Francey Wilmot--or even me--just a sort of pug-dog you trailed
behind on the end of a string--a sort of mascot."

He was going to sleep. He waggled his arm feebly, groping for
Stonehouse. "Say you'll come. I'd be awfully proud--show you off, you
know. Always was--awfully proud--have such a pal."

He was the very figure of stupid intoxication as he lay there with his
crumpled evening clothes and disordered hair--and yet not ugly either,
but in some way innocent and simple. (Robert could see little Rufus
Cosgrave, excited and tired out after the chase to the Greatest Show in
Europe, peering through the disguise of rowdy manhood.)

Stonehouse threw a rug over him, resigning himself to the inevitable.
But when he had switched off the main lights he gave an involuntary
glance over the suddenly shadowed room as though to make sure that the
darkness had exorcised an alien and detestable presence.

So she was sorry for him. That, at any rate, was amusing. Or perhaps
she thought he was afraid of her in the obscure duel that was being
fought out between them.

Cosgrave caught hold of him as he passed.

"The end of it all will be that I'll go back to my old swamp and tell
the fellows that I've had a first-rate leave. I'll tell 'em about her,
and they'll sit round open-mouthed--thinking I'm no end of a dog--and
that they'll do the same next time they get a chance. They'll be