It was a rainy night.  Lilly turned down King Street to walk to Charing Cross.  He liked being out of doors.  He liked to post his letters at Charing Cross post office.  He did not want to talk to Aaron any more.  He was glad to be alone.

He walked quickly down Villiers Street to the river, to see it flowing blackly towards the sea.  It had an endless fascination for him:  never failed to soothe him and give him a sense of liberty.  He liked the night, the dark rain, the river, and even the traffic.  He enjoyed the sense of friction he got from the streaming of people who meant nothing to him.  It was like a fox slipping alert among unsuspecting cattle.

When he got back, he saw in the distance the lights of a taxi standing outside the building where he lived, and heard a thumping and hallooing.  He hurried forward.

It was a man called Herbertson.

“Oh, why, there you are!” exclaimed Herbertson, as Lilly drew near.  “Can I come up and have a chat?”

“I’ve got that man who’s had flu.  I should think he is gone to bed.”

“Oh!” The disappointment was plain.  “Well, look here I’ll just come up for a couple of minutes.”  He laid his hand on Lilly’s arm.  “I heard you were going away.  Where are you going?”

“Malta.”

“Malta!  Oh, I know Malta very well.  Well now, it’ll be all right if I come up for a minute?  I’m not going to see much more of you, apparently.”  He turned quickly to the taxi.  “What is it on the clock?”

The taxi was paid, the two men went upstairs.  Aaron was in bed, but he called as Lilly entered the room.

“Hullo!” said Lilly.  “Not asleep?  Captain Herbertson has come in for a minute.”

“Hope I shan’t disturb you,” said Captain Herbertson, laying down his stick and gloves, and his cap.  He was in uniform.  He was one of the few surviving officers of the Guards, a man of about forty-five, good-looking, getting rather stout.  He settled himself in the chair where Aaron had sat, hitching up his trousers.  The gold identity plate, with its gold chain, fell conspicuously over his wrist.

“Been to ‘Rosemary,’” he said.  “Rotten play, you know—­but passes the time awfully well.  Oh, I quite enjoyed it.”

Lilly offered him Sauterne—­the only thing in the house.

“Oh, yes!  How awfully nice!  Yes, thanks, I shall love it.  Can I have it with soda?  Thanks!  Do you know, I think that’s the very best drink in the tropics:  sweet white wine, with soda?  Yes—­well!—­ Well —­now, why are you going away?”

“For a change,” said Lilly.

“You’re quite right, one needs a change now the damned thing is all over.  As soon as I get out of khaki I shall be off.  Malta!  Yes!  I’ve been in Malta several times.  I think Valletta is quite enjoyable, particularly in winter, with the opera.  Oh—­er—­how’s your wife?  All right?  Yes!—­glad to see her people again.  Bound to be—­ Oh, by the way, I met Jim Bricknell.  Sends you a message hoping you’ll go down and stay—­down at Captain Bingham’s place in Surrey, you know.  Awfully queer lot down there.  Not my sort, no.  You won’t go down?  No, I shouldn’t.  Not the right sort of people.”