A samovar was bubbling in the studio, and my cousin Betty King hailed me from the couch on which she sat between her father and Hugh.
"Here you are at last," she cried. "Dad and I have come to say good-by to you."
"What's the matter?" I asked. "Can't you stand Hugh any longer?"
Hugh glowered at me.
"Always raggin'," he commented.
Betty laughed.
"We are going to Constantinople to hunt for Greek manuscripts."
"I have a theory," explained my uncle, Vernon King, "that the upheavals of the war and the occupation of the city by Christian garrisons should be productive of rich opportunities for bibliophiles like myself, aside from an enhanced chance for archæological research."
"Well, I wish you luck," I grumbled. "And I wish I was not tied down to an architect's drawing-board."
"'Matter of fact, I'm about fed up with Wall Street," growled Hugh. "Nobody can make money any more."