table, not far off, and resumed his smoked salmon and his zest. She declined to share the meal; was neither hungry nor thirsty, she said. "Have your own way, my dear," he concluded the match; "you'll feel all the better for it, I know." She cupped her chin in her hand, and watched the play of knife and fork, her thoughts elsewhere.

"Now, Sancie," he said presently, in his usual direct manner, "how long is it since I've seen you?"

She answered at once, without looking up, "A year and ten days."

He shook his head. "That's too long. That's absurd. I don't like that kind of thing, as a man domestically inclined. But I've been a devil of a way. I wrote to you—from where?"

"From Singapore," she told him.

"So I did. I remember. But I went to Egypt before that. First-rate place,
Egypt. I know it well, but am always glad to be there. Fine river of its
own. We went to Khartoum, and two marches beyond; then Singapore and the
Straits, Burmah, Ceylon; then India. Didn't I write to you from India?"

"Yes," she told him. She was balancing a salt-spoon idly on a wine-glass, and seemed scarcely to listen. He rattled on.

"Had great days in India. Shooting, fishing, pig-spearing; polo, dances, rajahs, pretty women, pow-wows of sorts, and a chance of a fight. All in a year, my friend—I beg your pardon—and ten days. Quick work, eh? One crowded year of glorious life. A cycle of Cathay."

She was looking at her saltspoon, stretched beyond her the length of her arm. "I'm sure you were very happy."

He looked at her directly. "Oh, I was, you know. Otherwise, I guess I should have written. I was idiotically happy. And you?"

"I was busy," she told him, "idiotically busy." He laughed gaily.

"That's one for me—and a shrewd one.