"No--in memory of our meeting, have a--holiday," he added lamely. This time she let the note rest in her hand. He thought she was going to cry, but suddenly she turned and was lost in the passing crowd. Marsh stood there, silent, bemused. John said not a word, but called a taxi, and pushed his friend into it. In the darkness Marsh sat huddled up. They were speeding down Piccadilly and turning by Hyde Park Gate when he seemed conscious that he was being carried away. "Where are you taking me, Scissors," he asked in a dull voice. (Could this be Marsh, the debonair, the irrepressible?) "Home," John replied laconically. "I'm leaving Victoria at four a.m.--for France." John started. "But you--you were--" he began. "Going to spend the night with a gay woman, like the filthy cad I am. Oh, I know what you're thinking! Well, I was--I'd have been one of those deserters you see under escort." "You're drunk, Teddie," said John. "That's no excuse--in a court martial." There was silence again. It was now half-past eleven. He would get him home and make him rest for the few intervening hours. Mrs. Perdie was up when they arrived. Fortunately Marsh pulled himself together, and was his graceful self, but when he gained John's room, he collapsed on the bed. John went below to ask for coffee, a little apologetically. But Mrs. Perdie was in a delightful fluster. "The bonnie laddie--oh, I want to cry when I see a kiltie. His mother must be proud of him. An' the Black Watch! Many's the time in Edinburgh I've seen--" John left her in ecstasies. He wanted to pull the bonnie laddie round, for the credit of his dear mother and himself. But Marsh had recovered and was sitting upright in a chair. He had been brushing his hair and straightening the thin khaki tie. "I suppose you're thinking--" started Marsh, bitterly. "What a stroke of luck it was--Jove, Teddie, it does me good to see you! But where have you been?" cried John. And the other, seeing he had no intention of alluding to the circumstances of their meeting, took the hint.