house in London, so close to Westminster, was a distinct
dear; and nothing could be more charming than their cottage by the river.
Was Olive, then, to be pitied? And yet--she was not happy. It was no
good pretending that she was happy. All very well to say that such
things were within one's control, but if you read novels at all, you knew
they weren't. There was such a thing as incompatibility. Oh yes! And
there was the matter of difference in their ages! Olive was twenty-six,
Robert Cramier forty-two. And now this young Mark Lennan was in love
with her. What if she were in love with him! John would realize then,
perhaps, that the young flew to the young. For men--even the best, like
John, were funny! She would never dream of feeling for any of her
nephews as John clearly felt for Olive.

The Colonel's voice broke in on her thoughts.

"Nice young fellow--Lennan! Great pity! Better sheer off--if he's
getting--"

And, rather suddenly, she answered:

"Suppose he can't!"

"Can't?"

"Did you never hear of a 'grande passion'?"

The Colonel rose on his elbow. This was another of those occasions that
showed him how, during the later years of his service in Madras and Upper
Burmah, when Dolly's health had not been equal to the heat, she had
picked up in London a queer way of looking at things--as if they were
not--not so right or wrong as--as he felt them to be. And he repeated
those two French words in his own way, adding:

"Isn't that just what I'm saying? The sooner he stands clear, the
better."

But Mrs. Ercott, too, sat up.

"Be human," she said.

The Colonel experienced the same sensation as when one suddenly knows
that one is not digesting food. Because young Lennan was in danger of
getting into a dishonourable fix, he was told to be human! Really, Dolly
was--! The white blur of her new boudoir cap suddenly impinged on his
consciousness. Surely she was not getting--un-English! At her time of
life!

"I'm thinking of Olive," he said; "I don't want her worried with that
sort of thing."

"Perhaps Olive can manage for herself. In these days it doesn't do to
interfere with love."

"Love!" muttered the Colonel. "What? Phew!"

If one's own wife called this--this sort of--thing, love--then, why had
he been faithful to her--in very hot climates--all these years? A sense
of waste, and of injustice, tried to rear its head against all the side
of him that attached certain meanings to certai