Presently, the man stirred, stretched himself and finally sat up.
Then he started, sprang to his feet, and strode easily across the
vestibule to the reception desk. An officer was standing there in
a worn uniform, a very shabby kit-bag by his side, a dirty old
Burberry over his arm.

"Okewood!" said the young man and touched the other on the
shoulder, "isn't it Desmond Okewood? By Jove, I am glad to see
you!"

The new-comer turned quickly.

"Why, hullo," he said, "if it isn't Maurice Strangwise! But, good
heavens, man, surely I saw your name in the casualty list...
missing, wasn't it?"

"Yep!" replied the other smiling, "that's so! It's a long story
and it'll keep! But tell me about yourself... this," he kicked
the kit-bag with the toe of his boot, looks like a little leave!
Just in from France?"

He smiled again, baring his firm, white teeth, and looking at him
Desmond suddenly remembered, as one recalls a trifle, his trick
of smiling. It was a frank enough smile but... well, some people
smile too much.

"Got in just now by the leave train," answered Desmond.

"How much leave have you got?" asked Strangwise.