CHAPTER TEN
AS I sat in that apartment of Wendy Washburn's I felt like a storm-battered man-of-war that had slipped into a neutral port for its legal and limited stay and before long would be once more breasting the waves of an open sea.
So as I lay in that sheltered and orderly haven, a flock of weary-eyed wishes and longings seemed to swarm up from somewhere below, the same as tired seamen might swarm to the decks of their ship as it lay beside homely green harbor-hills and sloping town-streets which they could never hope to tread.
For it was, in the first place, a dream of an apartment, with rooms enough, apparently, to house an Elks' convention. From what I could see of its lay-out, I took it to be a duplex. If it harbored other members of my Hero-Man's family, I had no chance of getting a glimpse of them. I was glad enough to rest my eyes on old brass and the dull reflection of shaded lights on polished wood and the quiet tones of tapestry which centuries of time had
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