"Here's to the Wings of Love,
May they never moult a feather."
Toast.
Almost roughly he dragged Jack Awdas into the little entrance lobby, where, under a couple of mounted ibex heads, a carved oak chest was piled up with khaki caps, gloves, and British warms. The red silk-shaded hanging-lamp glowed down on the two young men reflected in a convex mirror on the other wall; Captain Ross's black head was therein enlarged until his figure had the proportions of a tadpole; his face showed the expression of a deeply-injured man, of one whom his friend had "let in" for something uncalled-for and gratuitous.
"See here," he began abruptly. "I've got to tell you. There's something I know that I don't know if I'm supposed to know."
Jack Awdas gave his husky boy's laugh.
"Well, dash it, there are a few things that a Captain on the staff is supposed to know after all. 'Wearing red things round his hat, he's employed at this and——'"
"Don't rag, Jack. This thing's about you." Then, almost violently, "I saw you this morning."
That red light glowed on a change in the fair one of the two faces as the young flying officer looked down upon his friend, "I say, d'you mean——?"
"Yep. I saw you."