old days. The hours had seemed fuller and
longer, sleep better earned--wonderful, the things one could do without
when put to it! He turned the car into the high road, driving dreamily
for he was in plenty of time. The war was going pretty well now; he was
no fool optimist, but now that conscription was in force, one might
reasonably hope for its end within a year. Then there would be a boom,
and one might let oneself go a little. Visions of theatres and supper
with his wife at the Savoy afterwards, and cosy night drives back into
the sweet-smelling country behind your own chauffeur once more teased a
fancy which even now did not soar beyond the confines of domestic
pleasures. He pictured his wife in new dresses by Jay--she was fifteen
years younger than himself, and "paid for dressing" as they said. He had
always delighted--as men older than their wives will--in the admiration
she excited from others not privileged to enjoy her charms. Her rather
queer and ironical beauty, her cool irreproachable wifeliness, was a
constant balm to him. They would give dinner parties again, have their
friends down from town, and he would once more enjoy sitting at the foot
of the dinner table while Kathleen sat at the head, with the light soft
on her ivory shoulders, behind flowers she had arranged in that original
way of hers, and fruit which he had grown in his hot-houses; once more he
would take legitimate interest in the wine he offered to his guests--once
more stock that Chinese cabinet wherein he kept cigars. Yes--there was a
certain satisfaction in these days of privation, if only from the
anticipation they created.

The sprinkling of villas had become continuous on either side of the high
road; and women going out to shop, tradesmen's boys delivering victuals,
young men in khaki, began to abound. Now and then a limping or bandaged
form would pass--some bit of human wreckage; and Mr. Bosengate would
think mechanically: 'Another of those poor devils! Wonder if we've had
his case before us!'

Running his car into the best hotel garage of the little town, he made
his way leisurely over to the court. It stood back from the
market-place, and was already lapped by a sea of persons having, as in
the outer ring at race meetings, an air of business at which one must not
be caught out, together with a soaked or flushed appearance. Mr.
Bosengate could not resist putting his handkerchief to his nose. He had
carefully drenched i