But Alf shook his head; he had been thankful to find that the lady of his dreams moved in no more rarefied an atmosphere. It had made her a little more accessible. Bill continued his study of the page in his hand. "'Dunwater Park, from the South,'" he read. "Nice little villa enough--'bout the size o' Buckingham Palace. You won't 'ave to turn the kids out of their bedroom when I come week-endin' with you an' the missus there, will you?" Alf gave a nervous snigger. "'Dunwater Park, from the North-West,'" pursued Bill. "Yes, it's a big place, but we'll make Eustace put one up for us as'll beat this all to nothing. What's this? 'Group of officers at present under Miss FitzPeter's care.' Look 'appy enough, don't they? Why ain't she in it? If I'd been 'er, I'd 'ave planked meself down in the middle of that photo, I would. 'Ullo, 'ere's one 'oo looks like our Mr. Allen." "P'raps it is 'im." "They don't put names, so we can't tell. Ever 'ad yer photo in the papers, Alf?" "No. 'Ow could I?" "Well, they 'ave lots o' silly things in sometimes. Any'ow, once you've married this girl and got a big 'ouse you'll 'ave yer photo in once a day, an' twice on Sundays. 'Oo's this ole cock at the bottom o' the page? 'Sir Edward FitzPeter.' That's 'er pa. If I'd been you I'd 'ave 'ad a lord, but you never was proud, was you, Alf?" "Bill," answered Higgins seriously, "it ain't no good." "What ain't no good?" "My marryin' 'er. It--it ain't right. She's too 'igh up for me. She--she ought to 'ave a gentleman." "Lumme," said Bill scornfully, "you ain't goin' to get cold feet now, are you? 'Ere you are, the richest man in the 'ole world once you get 'ome, an' you go an' get the wind up because some bloomin' girl without even a Hon before 'er name is too 'igh for you." "'Oo's the richest man in the world?" "You are, o' course. Don't you ever sit down an' think out what you can do with that Button o' yours? Lumme, if _I_ 'ad it.... 'Ere, just as a test like, tell Eustace to bring you a thousand quid!" "Not me. We said we wouldn't...." "Right you are--my mistake," conceded Bill. "Well, you can take it from me it'll be all right." "Eustace generally mucks it some'ow." "Ah, but that's because we been giving 'im things to do as 'e's not used to. But this weddin' business an' the 'ouse an' so on'll be easy to 'im; he's done it all before for Aladdin. If only that ole lady'd send me that book what I asked 'er for, we'd know better what Eustace can do. But if she don't get a move on it'll be too late." But next day, when the company reached its billet, a mail arrived, in which was a bulky package addressed to Mr. William Grant, Pte. The old lady had not failed her protégé. The parcel contained an aged copy of the _Arabian Nights_, leather bound and smelling faintly of camphor. Between two pages of the book had been slipped a letter. "DEAR WILLIAM GRANT," it ran.