Then some memory assailing him, he faltered, “And a little foolish footstool.”

“Sit down,” Jerry said.  There was something strangely appealing in that gay young figure with the shining eyes.  In spite of himself, Jerry felt uncomfortable.  “Sit down,” he said.

So Barry sat down, and laughed at nothing, and talked about nothing, and found it all very enchanting.

He packed his bag and left a note for Gordon and when he piled finally with the others into Jerry’s car, he was ready to shout with them that it was a long lane which had no turning, and that work was a bore and would always be.

And so the ride which Leila had planned for herself and her young husband became a wild ride, in which these young knights of the road pursued fantastic adventures, with memories blank, and with consciences soothed.

For days they rode, stopping at various inns along the way, startling the staid folk of the villages by their laughter late into the night; making boon companions in an hour, and leaving them with tears, to forget them at the first turn of the corner.

Written as old romance, such things seem of the golden age; looked upon in the light of Barry’s future and of Leila’s, they were tragedy unspeakable.

And now the car went up and up, to come down again to some stretch of sand, with the mountains looming black against one horizon, the sea a band of sapphire against another.

And so, fate drawing them nearer and nearer, they came at last to the little town which Leila had described in her letter.

Going in, some one spoke the name, and Barry had a stab of memory.  Who had talked of narrow streets, across which people gossiped—­and shook hands?—­who had spoken of having tea in that little shop?

He asked the question of his companions, “Who called this a story-book town?”

They laughed at him.  “You dreamed it.”

Steadily his mind began to work.  He fumbled in his pocket, and found
Leila’s letter.

Searching through it, he discovered the name of the little place.  “I didn’t dream it,” he announced triumphantly; “my wife told me.”

“Wake up,” Jerry said, “and thank the gods that you are single.”

But Barry stood swaying.  “My little wife told me—­Leila!”

With a sudden cry, he lurched forward.  His arm struck the arm of the driver beside him.  The car gave a sudden turn.  The streets were narrow—­so narrow that one might almost shake hands across them!

And there was a crash!

Jerry was not hurt, nor the other adventurers.  The chauffeur was stunned.  But Barry was crumpled up against the stone steps of one of the funny little houses, and lay there with Leila’s letter all red under him.

It was Porter and Mary who told Leila.  The General had begged them to do it.  “I can’t,” he had said, pitifully.  “I’ve faced guns, but I can’t face the hurt in my darling’s eyes.”