After three gins-and-seltzers, it was time for Tomlinson to listen to Dunlap about his children. He had heard it all before. He had come from his own mess with the news about Jim. That was all that interested him, so he got up to go. "Who’ll play polo this evening?" he asked. Singleton promised he would. "I’ll walk back with you," Tomlinson said. They started to leave, but catching sight of an orderly with a mail-bag, Singleton let Tomlinson go on alone. "See you at six for polo, Tommy; and I say, send any of our fellows in that you see. Tell them the post is in," he called as he saw Jim’s long, loose-jointed stride across the road. A blazing sun beat down on Jim as he crossed to the mess. The April weather was anticipating India’s most wearing heat. But only vaguely he noted the ominous lead-colored sky, with its promise of dust storms. The green of England filled his vision. Since the days in the hospital, his thoughts had recurred incessantly to Diana. A picture in an illustrated paper, picked up in his ward, showed him Miss Diana Marjoribanks as a beautiful young girl—little Diana no longer. There was the same Madonna face, but more exquisitely fair than the child he had left had promised to be. He hardly cared to admit to himself how much the picture had stirred him. When he entered the mess he found the men in groups, absorbed in their letters. Singleton and Dunlap both called to him. "There are two for you, Jim." Letters did not often come his way. When he first left England, several child’s letters had come from Diana—these he had answered. He never heard from Henry, and his aunt wrote seldom. "Dinningfold." He saw the familiar old postmark. It was from Lady Elizabeth, then. Boyishly, he fingered its ample thickness. It was good of her to write such a budget, he thought, as he tore it open. The chatter of voices about him fell unheeding on his ears as the men read their letters. "God! Breese is dead—dropped down quite suddenly at the club," Singleton remarked as he turned a page of the letter he was reading. His words were almost drowned by an eager, exulting cry. Half the fellows turned toward Dick Farninsby. He was usually so quiet. To-night his young, fair face was the color of a puppy. "I’ve come into the money," he stammered. Every one knew that Farninsby’s uncle had been an old reprobate and that Dick had had a close pinch on his meagre allowance. They also knew that a pretty girl was waiting for him at home. A buzz of congratulations followed. But Tim took no part in them. He was reading his aunt’s letter. "... We are so sorry that you won’t be home in time for the wedding. Diana and Henry are to be married. It will be a London wedding. Diana has grown into a beautiful girl and will make a worthy wife for Henry and a charming mistress of Maudsley Towers...."