Ten minutes later three pairs of people might have been seen strolling up and down the Promenade. And as the arrangement of those pairs was entirely due to the navigating lieutenant, their composition is perhaps worthy of a paragraph. At one end, as was very right and proper, Jerry and Miss Honks discussed men and matters--at least, I assume so--with a zest that seemed to show his nervousness was only transient. In the middle the stage-manager and Mrs. Honks discussed Society, with a capital "S"--a subject of which the worthy woman knew nothing and talked a lot. At the other end Mr. Honks poured into the unresponsive ear of an infuriated Prussian nobleman his new scheme for cornering sausages. Which shows what a naval officer can do when he gets down to it. * * * * * Now, it is certainly not my intention to recount in detail the course of Jerry Travers's love affair during his stay on the Riviera. Sufficient to say, it did not run smoothly. But there are one or two things which I must relate--things which concern our three principals. They cover the first round in the contest--the round which the German won on points. And though they have no actual bearing on the strange happenings which brought about the second and last round, in circumstances nothing short of miraculous at a future date, yet for the proper understanding of the retribution that came upon the Hun at the finish it is well that they should be told. They occurred that same evening, at the ball given by the British Navy on the flagship. Few sights, I venture to think, are more imposing, and to a certain extent more incongruous, than a battleship in gala mood. For days beforehand, men skilled in electricity erect with painstaking care a veritable fairyland of coloured lights, which shine softly on the deck cleared for dancing, and discreet kala juggers prepared with equal care by officers skilled in love. Everywhere there is peace and luxury; the music of the band steals across the silent water; the engine of death is at rest. Almost can one imagine the mighty turbines, the great guns, the whole infernal paraphernalia of destruction, laughing grimly at their master's amusements--those masters whose brains forged them and riveted them and gave them birth; who with the pressure of a finger can launch five tons of death at a speck ten miles away; whose lightest caprice they are bound to obey--and yet who now cover them with flimsy silks and fairy lights, while they dance and make love to laughing, soft-eyed girls. And perhaps there was some such idea in the gunnery-lieutenant's mind as he leant against the breech of a twelve-inch gun, waiting for his particular guest. "Not yet, old man," he muttered thoughtfully--"not yet. To-night we play; to-morrow--who knows?"