at one needs much more."

"A stern doctrine; it seems to bar out a good deal of the beauty and
joy of life. But I see some landscapes yonder."

She led him up to several small impressionist sketches in water-colour
of Indian subjects, and stopped in admiration.

"These are very good. I know the country, and they make you realise
what it is like. There is genius here."

"My son did them," said Challoner with dry amusement. "I can see their
cleverness, but I'll admit that I think them rather a waste of time."

"A shocking view. Would you sooner have had him study his drill book
or attend a kit inspection?"

"On the whole, I believe so. It would be more in line with his
profession."

Mrs. Chudleigh gave him a direct, reproachful glance. "I know your son
and that he is a good soldier, but I feel you were wrong when you sent
him into the army. With training, he might have made a great artist."

Challoner regarded her with frank astonishment. "But, my dear lady,
would you prefer the latter; a coverer of canvases, a mere portrayer of
action instead of a doer? Is it better to paint human passions and
emotions than to control and direct your own and those of others?"

"Painting is his work," Mrs. Chudleigh persisted. "He has the
temperament; you can see it triumphing over circumstances. In spite of
his duties, the amusements he must be expected to take part in, and, no
doubt, the banter of the mess, he finds time to make these sketches.
Then they exhibit more than mere skill with the brush; they show clear
understanding and the power of feeling."

"The latter is a dangerous gift. A man of action is better without it."

"Your son has it, and it cannot be got rid of; but in a sense, you're
right. Sensibility must be a handicap to a soldier now and then,
making him realize dangers and cruelties he had better have been blind
to." Mrs. Chudleigh paused and added with a thoughtful air: "Captain
Challoner's courage and coolness are known, but I think they must cost
him more than is required of his comrades. I mean that his having
something to overcome before he can practise them, and yet always doing
so, shows a fine moral fibre."

Challoner looked grave. He had suspected what he thought were symptoms
of weakness in his son, though Bertram had never given way to it. His
companion's talk disturbed him because it seemed to prove the
correctness of his suppositions, but he was shortly relieved of her.

Mar