“Yes, yes?” I said.

“Fascinating brown girls,” he said, “who played that banjo-mandolin thing they all play, and sang mournful luxurious songs, and danced under the lanterns at night.  And the bathing!  There’s no bathing here at all.  There you can stay in the sea air day if you like.  It’s like bathing in champagne.  Sun and surf and sands—­there’s nothing like it.”  He sighed rapturously.

“Well, I can’t help saying again,” I interrupted, “that it’s a most extraordinary thing that, after knowing you all these years, you have never told me a word about Honolulu or the South Seas or this wonderful pleasure-garden place called—­what was the name of it?”

He hesitated for a moment.  “Morto Notitui,” he then replied.

“I don’t think that’s how you had it before,” I said; “surely it was Tormo Tonitui?”

“Perhaps it was,” he said.  “I forget.  Those Hawaiian names are very much alike and all rather confusing.  But you really ought to go out there.  Why don’t you cut everything for a year and get some sunshine into your system?  You’re fossilising here.  We all are.  Let’s be gamblers and chance it.”

“I wish I could,” I said.  “Tell me some more about your life there.”

“It was wonderful,” he went on—­wonderful.  I’m not surprised that STEVENSON found it a paradise.”

“By the way,” I asked, “did you hear anything of STEVENSON?”

“Oh, yes, lots.  I met several men who had known him—­Tusitala he was called there, you know—­and several natives.  There was one extraordinary old fellow who had helped him make the road up the mountain.  He and I had some great evenings together, yarning and drinking copra.”

“Did he tell you anything particularly personal about STEVENSON?” I asked.

“Nothing that I remember,” he said; “but he was a fine old fellow and as thirsty as they make ’em.”

“What is copra like?” I asked.

“Great,” he said.  “Like—­what shall I say?—­well, like Audit ale and Veuve Clicquot mixed.  But it got to your head.  You had to be careful.  I remember one night after a day’s bathing at—­at Tromo Titonui—­”

“Where was that?” I asked.

“Oh, that little village I was telling you about,” he said.  “I remember one night—­”

“Look here,” I said, “you began by calling it Tormo Tonitui, then you called it Morto Notitui and now it’s Tromo Titonui.  I’m going to say again, quite seriously, that I don’t believe you ever were in Hawaii at all.”

“Of course I wasn’t,” he replied.  “But what is one to do in a railway carriage, with nothing to read, and a drenched world and those two words staring one in the face?” and he pointed to a placard above my head advertising a firm which provided the best and cheapest Motor Tuition.

* * * * *

DEMOBILISED.

  Daddy’s got his civvies on: 
    In his room upstairs
  You should have heard him stamping round,
    Throwing down the chairs;
  When I went to peep at him
    Daddy banged his door.... 
  Well, I think I’ll hide from Daddy
    Till the next Great War!