Tremendous cheering greeted these sentiments; three more cheers were proposed and given for the Canterbury.

“Home of the ‘ster arts, m-music an’ ‘r’ drama-r-r—­” observed Casson hazily—­“I’m going home.”

Nobody seemed to hear him.

“Home—­ser-weet home,” he repeated sentimentally—­“home among the horses—­where some Roman-nosed, camel-backed, slant-eared nag is probably waitin’ to kick daylight out’r me!  Ladies, farewell!” he added, tripping up on his spurs and waving his hand vaguely.  “Cav’lry’s eyes ‘n’ ears ’f army!  ‘Tain’t the hind legs’ No—­no! I’m head ‘n’ ears—­army! ‘n’ I wan’ t’ go home.”

For a while he remained slanting against the piano, thoughtfully attempting to pry out the strings; then Wye returned from putting Miss Carew and Miss Trent into a carriage.

“You come to the fort with me,” he said.  “That’ll sober you.  I sleep near the magazine.”

Berkley’s face looked dreadfully battered and white, but he was master of himself, careful of his equilibrium, and very polite to everybody.

“You’re—­hic!—­killin’ yourself,” said Cortlandt, balancing himself carefully in the doorway.

“Don’t put it that way,” protested Berkley.  “I’m trying to make fast time, that’s all.  I’m in a hurry.”

The other wagged his head:  “You won’t last long if you keep this up.  The—­hic!—­trouble with you is that you can’t get decently drunk.  You just turn blue and white.  That’s what’s—­matter—­you!  And it kills the kind of—­hic!—­of man you are.  B-b’lieve me,” he added shedding tears, “I’m fon’ ‘v’ you, Ber—­hic!—­kley.”

He shed a few more scalding tears, waved his hand in resignation, bowed his head, caught sight of his own feet, regarded them with surprise.

“Whose?” he inquired naively.

“Yours,” said Berkley reassuringly.  “They don’t want to go to bed.”

“Put ’em to bed!” said Cortlandt in a stem voice.  “No business wand’ring ’round here this time of night!”

So Berkley escorted Cortlandt to bed, bowed him politely into his room, and turned out the gas as a precaution.

Returning, he noticed the straggling retreat of cavalry and artillery, arms fondly interlaced; then, wandering back to the other room in search of his hat, he became aware of Letty Lynden, seated at the table.

Her slim, childish body lay partly across the table, her cheek was pillowed on one outstretched arm, the fingers of which lay loosely around the slender crystal stem of a wine-glass.

“Are you asleep?” he asked.  And saw that she was.

So he roamed about, hunting for something or other—­he forgot what—­until he found it was her mantilla.  Having found it, he forgot what he wanted it for and, wrapping it around his shoulders, sat down on the sofa, very silent, very white, but physically master of the demoralisation that sharpened the shadows under his cheek-bones and eyes.