"I must go back. I've business to attend to. Anyway, I'd be an encumbrance here. I may be useful there. Who knows?" As for me, every one knew what I proposed to do, and that left every one accounted for except the Violinist. He had been in his favorite attitude by the tree, just as he had been on that evening when it had been proposed to "tell stories," gazing first at one and then at another, as the hurried conversation went on. "Well," he said, finding all eyes turned on him, "I am going to London with the Journalist--if he is really going." "All right, I am," was the reply. "And from London I shall get to St. Petersburg. I have a dream that out of all this something may happen to Poland. If it does, I propose to be there. I'll be no good at holding a gun--I could never fire one. But if, by some miracle, there comes out of this any chance for the 'Fair Land of Poland' to crawl out, or be dragged out, from under the feet of the invader--well, I'll go _home_--and--and--" He hesitated. "And grow up with the country," shouted the Youngster. "Bully for you." "I may only go back to fiddle over the ruins. But who knows? At all events, I'll go back and carry with me all that your country had done for three generations of my family. They'll need it." "Well," said the Doctor, "that is all settled. Enough for to-night. We'll still have one or two, and it may be three days left together. Let us make the most of them. They will never come again." "And to think what a lovely summer we had planned," sighed the Divorcee. "Tush!" ejaculated the Doctor. "We had a lovely time all last year. As for this summer, I imagine that it has been far finer than what we planned. Anyway, let us be thankful that it was _this_ summer that we all found one another again." "Better go to bed," cried the Critic; "the Doctor is getting sentimental--a bad sign in an army surgeon." "I don't know," remarked the Trained Nurse; "I've seen those that were more sentimental than the Journalist, and none the worse for it." IX THE VIOLINIST'S STORY THE SOUL OF THE SONG THE TALE OF A FIANCEE On Saturday most of the men made a run into Paris. It had finally been decided as best that, if all went well, we should leave for Paris some time the next day. There were steamer tickets to attend to. There were certain valuables to be taken up to the Bank. The Divorcee had a trunk or two that she thought she ought to send in order that we might start with as little luggage as possible, so both chauffeurs were sent up to town with baggage, and orders to wait there. The rest of us had been busy doing a little in the way of dismantling the house. The unexpected end of our summer had come. It was sad, but I imagine none of us were sorry, under the circumstances, to move on.