On the deck, I turned and looked across to where Funchal climbed the hill. The sunlight was dazzling. I could trace the steep cobbled street, from point to point, down which one may slide in a wicker toboggan; see the square, too, with its powder-blue trees, and imagine the morning gathering at the tables outside the Golden Gate. Away over the bows I looked, and saw the flower-draped cliffs below Reid’s, where, on the lower terrace, over cocktails, Nanette would, I surmised, be the sole topic of conversation. The lady in question, supremely indifferent to the somewhat marked curiosity of the passengers, was walking aft with Jack, doubtless in quest of the much-desired lager. Jack, his legs encased in sodden flannels, was ridiculously happy because Nanette hung on his arm. “Leave them alone,” said Ensleigh. “God knows he’s earned it.” We found our way to the smoke-room and ordered drinks. They were good and cheap. They served to wipe out one more of the old scores I had against our Teutonic friends (_nées_ enemies). It was a distinctly mongrel company. Germans predominated, with a big sprinkling of those nondescripts and none-such usually invoiced as Argentines but sometimes mistaken for Greeks. One man, who sat alone, puzzled me. He was handsome, in a way. He wore his wavy hair rather long and was dressed in a perfectly cut and immaculately white drill suit. With the aid of a black-rimmed monocle attached to a thick ribbon, he read what looked like an official document. “By Jove!” Ensleigh exclaimed. Glancing aside, I saw that he, too, was staring at this romantic individual. “Looks like John Barrymore,” said I. “I know,” Ensleigh replied. “But he didn’t wear his hair like that the last time I saw him--coming out of the Salient with what was left of the Irish Guards. By Jove!” He jumped up and crossed the room. I followed. “O’Shea!” he cried. The man addressed dropped his monocle and stood up; then: “Ensleigh!” he exclaimed, and held out his hand. “Can it be Ensleigh!” “Ensleigh it is!” was the reply; “and I want you to meet”--drawing me forward--“Mr. Decies. Decies, this is Major Edmond O’Shea.” The Major readjusted his monocle and looked me over briefly, as if to determine whether he wanted to know me or not. I found myself looking into a pair of the coldest gray eyes that had ever examined my hidden motives. But, to tell the truth, I was more than a little flurried. For, as Ensleigh spoke, the fact had dawned upon me that I stood in the presence not only of an Irishman of ancient family, nor merely in that of a distinguished British officer, but in the presence of a mess-room tradition; a thing infinitely more wonderful and holy. This was “The O’Shea”--a synonym for all that’s fine under the Colours from Whitehall to Khatmandu. He dropped his monocle and grasped my hand warmly. “I am glad to meet you, Mr. Decies,” he said. We formed a trio, and there were some inevitable reminiscences--and more drinks; then: