Next day the town of Leghorn awoke to find itself gay with bunting, the Italian and English flags flying side by side everywhere, and the Consular standard flapping over the Consulate in the piazza.  In the night the British Mediterranean fleet, cruising down from Malta, had come into the roadstead, and at the signal from the flagship had maneuvered and dropped anchor, forming a long line of gigantic battleships, swift cruisers, torpedo-boat destroyers, torpedo-boats, despatch-boats, and other craft extending for several miles along the coast.

In the bright morning sunlight the sight was both picturesque and imposing, for from every vessel flags were flying, and ever and anon the great battleship of the Admiral made signals which were repeated by all the other vessels, each in turn.  Lying still on those calm blue waters was a force which one day might cause nations to totter, the overwhelming force which upheld Britain’s right in that oft-disputed sea.

A couple of thousand British sailors were ashore on leave, their white caps conspicuous in the streets everywhere as they walked orderly in threes and fours to inspect the town.  In the square outside the Consulate a squad from the flagship were setting up a temporary band-stand, where the ship’s band was to play when evening fell, while Hutcheson, perspiring in his uniform, drove with the Admiral to make the calls of courtesy upon the authorities which international etiquette demanded.

Myself, I had taken a boat out to the Bulwark, the great battleship flying the Admiral’s flag, and was sitting on deck with my old friend Captain Jack Durnford, of the Royal Marines.  Each year when the fleet put into Leghorn we were inseparable, for in long years past, at Portsmouth, we had been close friends, and now he was able to pay me annual visits at my Italian home.

He was on duty that morning, therefore could not get ashore till after luncheon.

“I’ll dine with you, of course, to-night, old chap,” he said.  “And you must tell me all the news.  We’re in here for six days, and I was half a mind to run home.  Two of our chaps got leave from the Admiral and left at three this morning for London—­four days in the train and two in town!  Gone to see their sweethearts, I suppose.”

The British naval officer in the Mediterranean delights to dash across Europe for a day at home if he can get leave and funds will allow.  It is generally reckoned that such a trip costs about two pounds an hour while in London.  And yet when a man is away from his fiancee or wife for three whole years, his anxiety to get back, even for a brief day, is easily understood.  The youngsters, however, go for mere caprice—­whenever they can obtain leave.  This is not often, for the Admiral has very fixed views upon the matter.

“Your time’s soon up, isn’t it?” I remarked, as I lolled back in the easy deck-chair, and gazed away at the white port and its background of purple Apennines.