Andrew held a cigarette between the tips of his fingers and looked at the curling smoke. The picture of the reefs and surfs and white sands and palm-trees of these far off islands rose, fascinating, before his eyes. And then he remembered that he had once a father and mother--and a birth-place. "Curiously enough," said he, "I am Australian born." He had scarcely ever realized the fact. "All the more reason," said Arbuthnot heartily. "Come with me on the Osway. The captain's a pal of mine. He'll fix up a bunk for you somewhere." He offered boundless hospitality. Andrew grew more wistful. He thanked Arbuthnot. But---- "I'm a poor man," said he, "and have to earn my living at my old job." "And what's that?" "I'm a music-hall artist," said Andrew. "You? Good Lord! I thought you had been a soldier all your life. One of the old contemptibles." "I enlisted as a private in the Grenadier Guards," smiled Andrew. "And came to be a General in a brass hat--and now you're back on the stage. Somehow it doesn't fit. Do you like it?" Andrew winched at the intimate question of the frank and direct Australian. Last night's scene swept across his vision, hateful and humiliating. "I have no choice," said he. As before, on the quay, Arbuthnot looked at him, keenly. "I don't think you do like it. I've met hundreds of fellows who feel just the same as you. I'm different, as I told you. But I can understand the other point of view. Perhaps I should kick if I had to go back to a poky office, instead of a free, open-air life. After all, we're creatures of circumstance." He paused to light a cigar. Andrew made no reply, and the conversational topic died a natural death. They talked of other things--went back to Arras, the Somme, Saint Quentin. Presently Arbuthnot, pulling out his watch, suggested lunch. Andrew rose, pleading an engagement--his daily engagement with Elodie at the stuffy little hotel table d'hôte. But the other begged him for God's sake not to desert him in this lonely multitude. It would not be the act of a Christian and a comrade. Andrew was tempted, feeling the charm and breeziness of the Australian like a breath of the free air of Flanders and Picardy. He went indoors to the telephone. Elodie, eventually found, responded. Of course, her poor André must have his little pleasure. He deserved it, _mon Dieu!_ It was _gentil_ of him to consult her. And it had fallen out quite well, for she herself could not eat. The stopping had dislodged itself from one of her teeth which was driving her mad with pain and she was going to a dentist at one o'clock. He commiserated with her on her misadventure. Elodie went into realistic details of the wreck of the gold stopping on the praline stuffing of a chocolate. Then an anguished "_Ne me coupez pas, Mademoiselle_." But Mademoiselle of the Exchange cut ruthlessly, and Andrew returned to Arbuthnot. "I'm at your service," said he.