Doggie, after leaving the camp, took a room in a hotel and sat there most of the day, the mere pulp of a man. His one desire now was to escape from the eyes of his fellow-men. He felt that he bore the marks of his disgrace, obvious at a glance. He had been turned out of the army as a hopeless incompetent; he was worse than a slacker, for the slacker might have latent qualities he was without. Presently the sight of his late brother-officers added the gnaw of envy to his heart-ache. On the third day of his exile he moved into lodgings in Woburn Place. Here at least he could be quiet, untroubled by heart-rending sights and sounds. He spent most of his time in dull reading and dispirited walking. His failure preyed on his mind. He walked for miles every day, though without enjoyment. He wandered one evening in the dusk to Waterloo Bridge and gazed out over the parapet. The river stretched below, dark and peaceful. As he looked down on the rippling water, he presently became aware of a presence by his side. Turning his head, he found a soldier, an ordinary private, also leaning over the parapet. "I thought I wasn't mistaken in Mr. Marmaduke Trevor," said the soldier. Doggie started away, on the point of flight, dreading the possible insolence of one of the men of his late regiment. But the voice of the speaker rang in his ears with a strange familiarity, and the great fleshy nose, the high cheekbones, and the little gray eyes in the weather-beaten face suggested vaguely some one of the long ago. His dawning recognition amused the soldier. "Yes, laddie, it's your old Phineas. Phineas McPhail, M. A.--now private P. McPhail." It was no other than Doggie's tutor of his childhood days. "Very glad to see you," Doggie murmured. Phineas, gaunt and bony, took his arm. Doggie's instinctive craving for companionship made Phineas suddenly welcome. "Let us have a talk," he said. "Come to my rooms. There will be some dinner." "Will I come? Will I have dinner? Laddie, I will." In the Strand they hailed a taxi-cab and drove to Doggie's place. "You mention your rooms," said Phineas. "Are you residing permanently in London?" "Yes," said Doggie, sadly. "I never expect to leave it." A few minutes later they reached Woburn Place. Doggie showed Phineas into the sitting-room. The table was set for Doggie's dinner. Phineas looked around him in surprise. The tasteless furniture, the dreadful pictures on the walls, the coarse glass and the well-used plate on the table, the crumpled napkin in a ring--all came as a shock to Phineas, who had expected to find Marmaduke's rooms a reproduction of the fastidious prettiness of the peacock and ivory room in Durdlebury. "Laddie," he said, gravely, "you must excuse me if I take a liberty, but I cannot fit you into this environment. It cannot be that you have come down in the world?" "To bed-rock," replied Doggie. "Man, I'm sorry," said Phineas. "I know what coming down feels like. If I had money--"