“Hear, hear!” said Pillivant, blatantly golf-accoutred, who had entered by the open door at the opening of Baltazar’s avowal. “Now you’re talking sense. I’m glad to see you realize how sinfully you’ve been wasting your time. Chinese! What’s the good of Chinese? They’ve got to learn our language, not we theirs. I know. I went out to Hong Kong as a young man for five months on a building job. Every man-Jack talks pidgin-English. That’s good enough to get along with. Do you mean to say you’ve been spending your life learning Chinese? Of all the rotten things——” “I’m aware, Mr. Pillivant,” said Baltazar, with a grimace intended, for a smile, which on his haggard face and beneath his bandaged head had a somewhat sinister aspect, “I’m aware that in your eyes I must appear rather a contemptible personage.” “Oh, not at all, old man,” cried Pillivant. “Everyone to his hobby. After all it’s a free country. Have a cigar.” He produced the portable gold casket. The doctor caught a swift glance from his patient and checked the generous offer. “Not yet, Pillivant. A cigarette or two is all I can allow him.” Pillivant selected and lit a cigar. There was a span of silence. He looked out of the window. Presently he began to praise the local golf-course, some mile or so distant. A natural course, with natural bunkers. The greens artificial—every sod brought from miles. Now the infernal Government had taken away their men. Not a soul in the place who understood anything about turf. Consequently the greens were going to the devil. It was an infernal shame to let golf-greens go to the devil. Goff was a national institution, necessary to maintain tired war-workers, like himself, in a state of national efficiency. But what could one expect from the rotten lot who constituted the so-called Government? Anyhow, you could still get some sort of a game. Baltazar must come round with him as soon as he could get about. “I’ve never played golf in my life,” said Baltazar. “Never played——? Why, you seem to be out of everything.” Presently he swaggered out at the end of his monstrous cigar. Baltazar turned a weary head. “Doctor,” said he, “would they hang me very high if I slew my benefactor?” * * * * *