The town was Stockholm in the year nineteen hundred and twelve, and on this afternoon, the Olympic games, that unfortunate effort to promote goodwill amongst the nations, which did little but increase rancours and disclose hatreds, had ended, never, it is to be hoped, to be resumed.
"Luttrell," cried Hardiman again, but this time with perplexity in his voice.

For Luttrell was there in the cabin in front of him, but sunk in so deep a contemplation of memories and prospects that the cabin might just as well have been empty.

Sir Charles Hardiman touched him on the shoulder.
"Wake up, old man!" "That's what I am doing--waking up," said Luttrell, turning without any start.

He was seated in front of the writing-desk, a young man, as the world went before the war, a few months short of twenty-eight.
"The launch is waiting and everybody's on deck," continued Hardiman.
"We shall lose our table at Hasselbacken if we don't get off." Then he caught sight of a telegram lying upon the writing-table.
"Oh!" and the impatience died out of his voice.

"Is anything the matter ?" Luttrell pushed the telegram towards his host.
"Read it! I have got to make up my mind--and now--before we start." Hardiman read the telegram.