“My friend at that time was not only suspicious of everyone’s patriotism but a deadly foe of golf.  He even went so far as to call it Scotch croquet and other contemptuous names.  I saw him watching the clubs and the paper and speculating on the age of the man, whose legs were, I admit, noticeably young, and he drew my attention to him too—­by nudges and whispers.  Obviously this was a shirker.

“For a while my friend contented himself with half-suppressed snorts and other signs of disapproval, but at last he could hold himself in no longer.  Leaning forward he tapped the man smartly on the knee, with the question, ‘Why aren’t you in khaki?’ It was an inquiry, you will remember, that was being much put at the time—­before compulsion came in.

“We all—­there were two or three other people in the compartment—­felt that this was going too far; and I knew it only too well when the man lowered his paper to see what was happening and revealed an elderly face with a grey beard absolutely out of keeping with those vigorous legs.

“To my intense relief, however, he seemed to have been too much engrossed by his paper to have heard.  At any rate he asked my friend to repeat his remark.

“Here, you will agree, was, if ever, an opening for what we call presence of mind.

“My friend, like myself, had been so taken aback by the apparition of more than middle age which confronted him when the paper was lowered that for the moment he could say nothing; the other passengers were in an ecstasy of anticipation; the man himself, a formidable antagonist if he became nasty, waited for the reply with a non-committal expression which might conceal pugnacity and might genuinely have resulted from not hearing and desiring to hear.

“And then occurred one of the most admirable instances of resourcefulness in history.  With an effort of self-collection and a readiness for which I shall always honour him, my friend said, speaking with precise clearness, ’I beg your pardon, Sir, but, mistaking you for a golfing friend of mine at Babbacombe, I asked you why you were not in Torquay.  I offer my apologies.’

“At these words the golfer bowed and resumed his paper, the other passengers ceased for the moment to have the faintest interest in a life which was nothing but Dead Sea fruit, and my friend uttered a sigh of relief as he registered a vow never to be a meddlesome idiot again.  But he looked years older.”

* * * * *

[Illustration:  UNCENSORED NEWS FROM FRANCE.

Visitor. “And is your brother still in France?”

Little Girl. “Yes.”

Visitor. “And what part of France is he in?”

Little Girl. “He says he’s in the Pink.”]

* * * * *

THE NEW MRS. MARKHAM.

II.

CONVERSATION ON CHAPTER IV.