He sighed, and at that moment coming down the squalid street appeared a band of children shepherded by a fussy schoolmaster and carrying bouquets of flowers, who, at the sight of Hazlewood, cheered shrilly. "You seem to be very popular here already," Sylvia observed. "Do you know what those flowers are for?" he asked, gravely. She shook her head. "They're for the British and French troops that these poor dears are expecting to arrive by every train to help them against the Austrians. I tell you it makes me feel the greatest humbug on earth. They are going to decorate the station to-morrow. It's like putting flowers on their country's tomb. Ah, don't let's talk about it--don't let's think about it," he broke out, passionately. "Serbia has been one of my refuges during the last nine years, and I stand here now like a mute at a funeral." He walked on, tugging savagely at his mustache, until he could turn round to Sylvia with a laugh again. "My mustache represents the badge of my servitude. I tug at it as in the old Greek days slaves must have tugged at their leaden collars. The day I shave it off I shall be free again. Here's the hotel where I hang out--almost literally, for my room is so small and so dirty that I generally put my pillow on the window-sill. The hotel is full of bugs and diplomats, but the coffee is good. However, it's no good raising your hopes, because I know that there isn't a spare room. Never mind," he added, "I've got another room at another hotel which is equally full of bugs, but unfrequented by diplomats. It is being reserved for my lady secretary, but she hasn't turned up yet, and so I make you a present of it till she does." "Why are you being so kind?" Sylvia asked. "I don't know," Hazlewood replied. "You amused me, I think, sitting there in that railway carriage with Antitch. It's such a relief to arrest somebody who doesn't instantly begin to shriek 'Consul! Consul!' Most women regard consuls as Gieve waistcoats, that is to say, something which is easily inflated by a woman's breath, has a flask of brandy in one pocket, and affords endless support. No, seriously, it happens that Michael Fane talked a great deal about you on a memorable occasion in my life, and since he's a friend of mine I'd like to do all I can for you. For the moment--here's the other hotel, nothing is far apart in Nish, not even life and death--for the moment I must leave you, or rather for the whole day, I'm afraid, because I've got the dickens of a lot to do. However, it's just as well the lady secretary hasn't turned up, because it's really impossible to feel very securely established in Nish. I expect, as a matter of fact, she's been kidnapped by some white slavery of the staff en route. Miss Potberry is her name. It's a depressing name for a secretary, but true romance knows no laws of nomenclature, so I still have hope. Poor lady.