“I say, who are all those people staying with—­with your friends?  I mean, the strangers I saw in Church yesterday—­a very creditable lot, upon my word.”

“I am glad you approve of them,” I answered gravely.  “The lady with the spectacles is Miss Gamma Girton, the Novelist of Agnosticism; the tall man in black, Thomas Daniel, the critic—­”

“Oh, literary people.”

“Quite.  Then there is Sir Inchcape Bell, the great Engineer; and Lady Judy Twitchett—­her husband (the young man with the bald head) sits for Horkey-boro’, you know, and will be in the Cabinet with the next—­”

But the Admiral was already hurrying down the street.  That very afternoon he took his family up to Kit’s House, to call; and has been calling at short intervals ever since.

The Goodwyn-Sandys, unless we are sharper than the police, we shall never see again.  So close was the pursuit, however, that they were forced to leave the portmanteau in the cloak-room at Paddington Station, where it was discovered and opened.  It contained a highly curious clock-work toy, and enough dynamite to raze St. Paul’s to the ground.  Even without exploding, it converted three statesmen to Home Rule.

Mr. Moggridge’s resignation of his post in the Customs was received without expressed regret.  He has since married Sophia Buzza, and edits a Conservative paper in Wales.  I see that another volume of his verse is in the press.  It is to be called “Throbs:  and other Trifles,” and will include the epithalamium written by him for his own nuptials, as well as his “Farewell to Troy!”—­a composition which Mrs. Buzza said she defied “you to read without feeling as if geese were walking over your grave.”

Sam Buzza has gone to College.

And what of Troy Town?  By degrees the old phrases, old catch-words, and old opinions have come to reign again.  Troy’s unchanged loveliness too, the daily round full of experiences familiar as old friends, the dear monotony of sight and sound in the little port—­all have made for healing and oblivion.  If you question us on a certain three months in our life, the chances are you will get no answer.  We have agreed to forget, you see; and so we are beginning to persuade ourselves, almost, that those months have never been.

Almost.  But, as a fact, Mrs. Buzza had been right.  “It will never be the same again-never!” Something we have lost, and I think that something is Troy.  For strangers have come amongst us, and have formed a society of their own.  The Town is grown out of our knowledge.  They have built, and are building, mansions of stucco, and a hotel of hideous brick; a fifth-rate race-meeting threatens the antique regatta; and before all this the savour of Trojan life is departing.  Ilion is down, and by no assault of war.

And yet—­

The evening before last I passed up the road in front of No.  I, Alma Villas.  The air was warm, and through the half-opened window a voice stole out—­