ak or keep your promise to her is your concern. Whether
she takes action against you when she knows the truth, is hers. But she
has the right to know. To see that she knows comes within the bounds of
any decent man's justifiable interference. One of us must tell her; the
news would come with less grace from myself. But for you to wriggle out
of your dilemma with silence, while she goes on breaking her heart, is
cowardly--just as cowardly as if you'd deserted in the face of the
enemy. I've no doubt you've sentenced more than one poor wretch to be
shot at sunrise for doing that."

Tabs pulled out his watch. He had said everything. So far as he was
concerned the conversation was at an end. It was nearly three o'clock.
Time had traveled quickly. He was surprised at the lateness of the hour.
Now that his intentness was relaxed, he let his gaze wander. The room
was nearly empty. Most of the gay little ladies who had chattered across
the tables to their recently recovered lovers or husbands, had tripped
away to continue their spree of celebration at a matinee or in an orgy
of shopping. Those who were left were putting on their wraps or sipping
the last of their coffee under the reproachful eyes of waiters. Across
the window in a brown-gray streak flowed the wind-flecked highway of the
Thames.

Braithwaite beckoned for his bill. After the humiliation of what had
been said it irked Tabs to have to see him pay it. The trend of the
conversation had helped to strip him of the arrogance of his military
honors. The mercenary subserviency of the man who handed him his
account, seemed to arouse him to the landslide that had taken place in
his self-esteem. He made a conscious effort to pull himself together.
While he waited for his change, he broke the silence.

"I believe you meant well by coming here. It would be foolish for me to
pretend that I'm altogether grateful--grateful for your way of
expressing most of the things that we've discussed together. At the same
time, Lord Taborley, I owe you an apology if at any point I've misjudged
your intentions. As regards Ann, you err in justice when you hold me
accountable for all the causes of her tragedy. Both she and I, and Miss
Beddow for the matter of that, are the victims of circumstances. It's
scarcely my fault that I've outgrown Ann; I'm no more to blame for that
than Terry is for having fallen in love with a man who was your servant.
_I_ didn't make the war. _I_ didn't promote myse