Although Shafto and his mother lived under the same roof, she, figuratively, sat with folded hands as far as he was concerned; it was kindly Mrs. Malone who looked after his little comforts, saw that his socks were mended, and made him a hot drink when he had a heavy cold.  Also, as a special honour, she invited him to her “den,” gave him a cup of coffee, or a glass of port, and talked to him of her Irish home and her young days.  Once upon a time she had been a capital horsewoman, and it was strange to hear this old lady and the bright-eyed youth comparing notable runs.

One day in the Strand at luncheon hour, Shafto came face to face with his old friend Geoffrey Tremenheere, looking bronzed, splendidly fit, and independent as a prince.

“Hallo, Douglas!” he exclaimed.  “Well, if this isn’t a piece of luck!  How are you, old man?”

“AH right—­and you?”

“I arrived from India yesterday and go up to Scotland to-night—­the family are all on the moors.  I’ve just been looking for a pair of guns.  Come and give your opinion, and then we will lunch.  I’m stopping at the Grand.”

“I’d like to awfully, I need not tell you, Geoff, but I’ve got to be back at 1.15 sharp—­it’s mail day.”

“Oh, hang mail day!  Come along and lunch—­and let us have a good old bukh!”

“I don’t know what that means—­but I’ll be glad of lunch, and more glad of a bit of a jaw!”

“Now, tell me all about yourself, Douglas,” said his schoolfellow, as they sat vis-a-vis in the marble hall.  “You don’t look particularly chirpy.  Still in the office?”

“Yes—­I expect to live and die there.”

“Poor old boy—­and doing work you hate!”

“Oh, I’m getting used to it now.  I shall manage to hang on.”

“And Mrs. Shafto—­how is she?”

“As usual—­going strong.  We live in the same boarding-house.”

“’Umph!  Well, let me tell you this—­you are in the black books at home.  I hear you refuse all invitations and make monstrous excuses.”

“You know I’d love to go down to ‘Tremenheere,’ but how can I?  My time is not my own, and I only got a week’s holiday in August and three days at Christmas.  There’s nothing to tell about my career—­let’s hear yours?”

Thus invited, Geoffrey, a gay young officer in a crack regiment, broke into short and vivid descriptions of Indian quarters, polo matches, and capital black-buck shooting in the Central Provinces, and gave a full and detailed history of his one tiger.

Shafto, an eager and enthusiastic listener, exclaimed: 

“I say, how splendid!  Do you know, Geoff, I’d give ten years of this life to have a good chance of seeing the world—­especially the East?”

“Who knows—­you might yet!”

“Pigs might fly!  Still I must not grumble.  I’m delighted you have had such a glorious time; when one’s friends are enjoying themselves, it’s next best to doing the same oneself.  What leave have you got?”