I wasn’t feeling so philosophical, though, when I journeyed back from Munich to London, and arrived home at last, soaked and shivering with weariness and our damned March weather. I seem to have come home to that front door so many times—covered with glory once or twice, and other times limping along with my boots letting in. This was one of the unhappier homecomings, and it wasn’t improved by the fact that when I was let into the hall, my dear father-in-law, old Morrison, was just coming downstairs. That was almost the last straw—my bloody Scotch relatives were still on the premises when I had hoped that they might have gone back to their gloomy sewer in Renfrew. The only bright spot I had been able to see was that I would be able to celebrate my return in bed with Elspeth, and here was this curmudgeon welcoming me in true Celtic style.

“Huh!” says he, “it’s you. You’re hame.” And he muttered something about another mouth to feed.

I gripped my temper as I gave my coat to Oswald, bade him good afternoon, and asked if Elspeth was at home.

“Oh, aye,” says he, looking me over sourly. “She’ll be glad tae see ye, nae doot. Ye’re thinner,” he added, with some satisfaction. “I take it Germany didnae agree wi’ ye—if that’s where ye’ve been.”

“Yes, it’s where I’ve been,” says I. “Where’s Elspeth?”

“Oh, in the drawin’-room—takin’ tea wi’ her friends, I suppose. We have all the fashionable habits in this hoose—includin’ your ain faither’s intemperance.”

“He’s well again?” I asked, and Oswald informed me that he was upstairs, lying down.

“His accustomed position,” says old Morrison. “Weel, ye’d better go up, sir, and be reunited wi’ the wife ye’ll have been yearning for. If ye make haste ye’ll be in time for tea, from her fine new silver service—aye, a’ the luxuries o’ the Saltmarket.” And to the sound of his whining I ran upstairs and into the drawing-room, feeling that tightness in my chest that I always felt when I was coming back again to Elspeth.

She gave a little cry at the sight of me, and rose, smiling, from behind the tray from which she had been dispensing tea to the females who were sitting about, all bonnets and gentility. She looked radiantly stupid, as ever, with her blonde hair done a different way, in ringlets that framed her cheeks.

“Oh, Harry!” She came forward, and stopped. “Why—Harry! Whatever have you done to your head?”

I should have expected that, of course, and kept my hat on, or worn a wig, or anything to prevent the repetition of that damfool question. Oh, well, I was home again, and in one piece, and Elspeth was holding out her hands and smiling and asking:

“What did you bring me from Germany, Harry?”