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hundred miles away, and timing their return. We only race from Edinburgh—about three hundred miles. After the war is over, I expect we’ll see a great interest in pigeon racing.”
    “I doubt it will ever replace horse racing.”
    “It appeals to a different sort of person, a more imaginative sort, I like to think. It is almost magical, in a way, to think a bird can soar through the sky for two thousand miles and always find its way home. That is quite a feat of navigation. Dobbin is not capable of that.”
    I was transported in my mind to that endless silver sky, arcing over vast continents. “It must be a wonderful sensation to fly through the air, looking down on life below. If I were a bird, I’d fly to Persia or Peru, and never return.”
    “You are more romantical than I had thought,” he said, with a close look.
    “I wonder what makes the birds come back.”
    “We don’t really know. The loft is their home, where they were born and bred. They know food and safety are here, and in some cases, but not always, the mate. We have bachelors and maiden birds who will also home. Just one more example of Nature’s infinite mystery.”
    “It seems strange to me that Papa became so fanatical about pigeons, almost to the exclusion of his family.”
    “You are thinking of that missed Season,” he said, and he was correct. The old resentment still lingered.
    But I did not wish to speak of it. “It is rather an odd hobby, is it not?” I said instead.
    “If that is so, then I am the wrong person to ask. I share his oddity, as men have for thousands of years. Pigeon breeding goes back to three thousand B.C. If it was good enough for the sultan of Baghdad and Genghis Khan, then it is good enough for me.”
    “You are putting yourself in poor company with Genghis Khan, Snoad,” I laughed.
    “True,” he agreed, “but clever poor company. He adopted the sultan’s system of using pigeons for post, by means of a relay system strung over continents. Your father has some excellent literature on the subject. You will notice that I am trying to interest you in it as well, to convince you to keep up the loft. It really would be a shame to lose your father’s years of work and study.”
    I gave him a pert look. “The possibility that you were trying to cozen me had occurred to me. Do the pigeons make money, or lose it?”
    He gave a pausing frown. “In a good year, we break even. It is not a scheme for growing rich, but it won’t beggar you either. The major investment of preparing the loft has already been made. It will cost you money to disassemble it. We who indulge in the sport consider it a labor of love. One never counts the financial cost when it is a matter of love.” He peered down at me hopefully. “Am I making any headway at all , Miss Hume?”
    “I shall think about it, Snoad.”
    While I would never become so fanatical as Papa, it might be an amusing hobby. Now that I was coming to know Snoad better, I thought he might be an interesting addition to my circle of acquaintances. A person knowledgeable in some new sphere will always amuse us for a while.
    We walked along the parapet as we talked, admiring the view. A star-dogged moon floated behind a rag of cloud. The cloud glowed a moment, then the moon reappeared. Two miles to the west, a sprinkle of lights announced the presence of Hythe. We stopped at the potted tree that was at the end of the walk.
    “Where is Caesar tonight?” I asked. “I didn’t see him in his tree when I was up this afternoon , and he is not here now.”
    “Sometimes he nests with Cleo.”
    “Is she named for Cleopatra, since she is Caesar’s mate?”
    “Yes, her formal name is Cleopatra, but she does not share her namesake’s fickle nature.”
    “Such a paragon of fidelity ought to be named after Caesar’s wife.”
    “Ah, but which one? He had so many.”
    “Did he? I thought he was only married to ... Octavia, was it, in Shakespeare’s play?”
    “Calphurnia,