“Queer, isn’t it, the way a chap feels about such things? I always hated the idea of being mangled. Awf’ly unpleasant idea that--’specially in the tummy. In India once I saw a chap----” “You--a coward!” Doris repeated, wide-eyed. “I don’t believe you.” He bent his head again. “I--I’m afraid you’d better,” he said uncertainly. She rose, still looking at him incredulously, another doubt, a more dreadful one, winging its flight to and fro across her inner vision. “Come,” she said in a tone she hardly recognized as her own, “come let us join the others.” He stood uncertainly and as she started to go, “You’ll let me take you home, Doris?” he asked. She bent her head, and without replying made her way to the group beyond the alcove. Hammersley stood a moment watching her diminishing back and then a curious expression, half of trouble, half of resolution, came into his eyes. Then after a quick glance around the curtain he suddenly reached into his trousers pocket, took something out and scrutinized it carefully by the light of the lamp. He put it back quickly and setting his monocle sauntered forth into the room. As he moved to join the group at the piano John Rizzio met him in the middle of the room. “Could I have a word with you, Hammersley?” he asked. “Happy,” said the Honorable Cyril. “Here?” “In the smoking-room--if you don’t mind?” Hammersley hesitated a moment and then swung on his heels and led the way. At the smoking-room door from the hallway Rizzio paused, then quietly drew the heavy curtains behind them. Hammersley, standing by the table, followed this action with a kind of bored curiosity, aware that Rizzio’s dark gaze had never once left him since they had entered the room. Slowly Hammersley took his hands from his pockets, reached into his waistcoat for his cigarette case, and as Rizzio approached, opened and offered it to him. “Smoke?” he asked carelessly. “I don’t mind if I do. But I’ve taken a curious liking for rolled cigarettes. Ah! I thought so.” He opened the tobacco jar and sniffed at it, searched around the articles on the table, then, “How disappointing! Nothing but Algy’s dreadful pipes. You don’t happen to have any rice-papers do you?” Hammersley was lighting his own cigarette at the brazier. “No. Sorry,” he replied laconically. Rizzio leaned beside him against the edge of the table. “Strange. I thought I saw you making a cigarette in the dining-room.” Hammersley’s face brightened. “Oh, yes, Byfield. Byfield has rice-papers.” “I’d rather have yours,” he said quietly. The Honorable Cyril looked up. “Mine, old chap? I thought I told you I hadn’t any.” Rizzio smiled amiably. “Then I must have misunderstood you,” he said politely. “Yes,” said Hammersley and sank into an armchair. Rizzio did not move and the Honorable Cyril, his head back, was already blowing smoke rings. Rizzio suddenly relaxed with a laugh and put his legs over a small chair near Hammersley’s and folded his arms along its back.