"Not half as fine," he said to himself, "as the fountain in our Sienese palace! And as for the rest of the 'piazza' ... why, there isn't a single public building--not even a decent Church! And the rain ... Is this the English summer? No wonder it's a cold race!" He looked covertly at his master, amazed by his obvious touch of excitement. For McTaggart was taking a deep breath of the foggy air that reeked with petrol. "It's good to be back again," he thought; "I wonder if Bethune will be there? I sent him a wire, but he's such a beggar for work, one never knows. By Jove, I must see about a car--useful during the present strike..." He peered out at the Berkeley steps where a lady in evening dress, her light wrap drawn about her, filmy skirts wound close, crossed, dainty, over the pavement beside her attendant cavalier. They turned into a side street, splashing and lumbering along, until, at last, they halted before the old familiar, narrow house. The door was open. McTaggart ran up the steep stairs like a boy. "Hullo! Mrs. Frost--how are you? Yes, I'm back. Rather late. Hope you got my letter all right?" "Yessir. Your rooms are ready." The sour faced woman was actually smiling. "My man's below--but he can't speak English--Will you see to him and pay the cab? _Hullo_! there you are, old man." He was shaking hands wildly with Bethune. "Steady on--what a grip! Confound you, you've broken my wrist..." Bethune's honest face was beaming. He dealt him a playful blow on the chest. "Hard as a rock!--you do look fit. I prepared to receive a languid foreigner. Come inside, Monsieur le Marquis..." "Oh--shut up! You ... dear old fool!" McTaggart glanced around at his rooms, the worn carpet and furniture that had seen service in College days--each scratch and dent a memory. Above the glass, still littered with cards and photographs, there hung an oar and underneath, on either side, stood a pair of battered silver cups. He drew a deep sigh of content. "Get me a drink--there's a dear chap! Hullo--that window's still smashed. What a rag it was! d'you remember that night?" For the topmost pane of glass was cracked from side to side beneath the blind. "Let's look at you"--he took the glass that Bethune filled for him and drank. "That's good. Why!--the 'Round Man's' growing a figure..." Bethune scowled. "Shut up! I got in whiskey--thought you'd want it. Here's luck----" he tossed it off--"What are you going to do about dinner? It's getting pretty late, you know." "Yes--we had a rotten crossing--the boat an hour over time. Have you dined yourself--no?--that's right. I thought we'd go down to Simpson's. I feel like a good cut off the joint..." Bethune laughed. "The illustrious Marquis is tired of his native macaroni?" "A bottle of beer--and some Welsh rabbit"--the other ran on, ignoring the taunt. "I'm fed up with Chianti." He stopped on the word with a little start.