Aughtlone led the way, and, as he reached the gallery overlooking the hall, he turned, smiling, and raised his candle above his head as if to light the way better for his guests. They came towards him by ones and twos, Jerome encircling Foster’s neck with his arm and crooning softly to himself, a picture of Falstaffian contentment: Mayhew, with one hand on the balustrade, looking back over his shoulder to address some laughing remark to Longridge at his heels; Brakespear bringing up the rear, grave and thoughtful as was his wont, his thin, handsome face white as ivory against the dark panelling. “Hi, Podgie!” called Mayhew, “ain’t they goin’ to make you a Major-General in the Air Force, or something? What’s all this talk about amalgamating the R.N.A.S. and R.F.C.?” The Flying Man reached the landing and disentangled his arm from his companion. “I shall be a Lieutenant-Colonel,” he said. “A Lieutenant-Colonel--me, what’s been in the Navy, man and boy, these fifteen years.” He frowned severely at an armour-clad effigy against the wall. “Amalgamate----” “Never mind,” said Foster. “Never mind, Podgie, _we_ don’t care. We shall know you couldn’t help being a Lieutenant-Colonel, and that you belonged to the Navy once.” “He’ll always belong to it,” said Mayhew. “He’s only camouflaged, and one of these days he’ll come back to us. The Navy ain’t like any other profession: you can’t suddenly become something else by dressing up in a different rig”--he pointed to the effigy in armour--“any more than I’d cease to be a Gunnery Lieutenant if I shoved on that fellow’s superfine tin suitings.” “This,” said Longridge, “is developing into a ‘Branch-kagg.’[7] I’m going to turn in.” “Breakfast at ten!” shouted the host as Longridge detached himself from the group and disappeared up a corridor. “And, anyhow,” said Brakespear, “even if our Podgie fades away, to become a Lieutenant-Colonel in a gorgeous uniform----” “Sky-blue, ain’t it, Podgie?” interposed Aughtlone. Brakespear disregarded the interruption. “Even if, I say, Podgie departs from our midst, the Navy remains. And if I--even I--go up in the next ‘Jutland,’ or Foster trips over one of his infernal machines accidentally in the dark----” “Or I get wafted skywards clearing a mine-field next week,” said Aughtlone. “Exactly.... Others would take our places. The individual doesn’t count.--Podgie, you’re dripping candle-grease on Tony’s ormulu carpet....” “I’m going to bed,” said the stout one. “You’re all getting a trifle maudlin....” Foster yawned. “I’m going too. But Brakes is right. What’s it matter what happens to us as long as we shove the wheel round a spoke or two in our short trick?” He wagged his head solemnly. “Life’s dev’lish short, anyway.... Come on, Podgie. ‘And so to bed.’ ... ’Night all!” Aughtlone watched the twin glimmers fade away down the long corridor and turned to his last remaining guest.