White Eagles Over Serbia

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Though Methuen usually lived at his Club whenever he was in London it was seldom that he was seen in the bar or the gaunt smoking-rooms. This afternoon in June was something of an exception — and he surprised himself when he found that he was crossing the marble staircase by the porter’s lodge, to push open the swing doors which opened on the private lounge. He was in search of congenial company, he told himself, and added under his breath, “And I am not feeling very particular.” Four months in the jungles of Malaya had starved him for the sound of his own language and he was glad — yes, glad — to catch sight of old Archdale, the bore of bores, in one corner of the room. “You’ve been away a hell of a time,” said Archdale mistily, out of his gold-rimmed monocle, and Methuen warmed to the familiar greeting. “Welcome back to the camp-fire, old man.”

The camp-fire was in fact burning rather low and Methuen drew attention to it, as well as giving an order to the steward, before he sank into the arm-chair facing Archdale. They chatted idly for a while, and Archdale was really putting himself out to repay the sense of gratitude he felt for Methuen’s company by retailing one of his longer stories, when the latter suddenly felt that he was being watched. He turned round in time to see the reflection of Dombey glide across the hall mirror. “O dear,” he said, “I do hope Dombey isn’t looking for me.” Archdale gave a satisfied chuckle. “Well, it’s not me he’s after.”

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