Three years is a bigger slice out of a fellow's life than anyone
would suppose. But, by the way, I saw Hutcheson the other day. We put
into Spezia, and he came out to see the Admiral--got despatches for
him, I think. He seems as gay as ever. He lunched at mess, and said how
sorry he was you'd deserted Leghorn."
"I haven't exactly deserted it," I said. "But I really don't love it
like he does."
"No. A year or two of the Mediterranean blue is quite sufficient to last
any fellow his lifetime. I shouldn't live in Leghorn if I had my choice.
I'd prefer somewhere up in the mountains, beyond Pisa, or outside
Florence, where you can have a good time in winter."
Then a silence fell between us, and I sat eating on until the end of the
meal, wondering how to broach the question I so desired to put to him.
"I shall try if I can get on recruiting service at home for a bit," he
said presently. "There's an appointment up in Glasgow vacant, and I
shall try for it. It'll be better, at any rate, than China or the
Pacific.
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