able to move a muscle--all his
willpower out of gear--just as a motor is out of gear. I've seen a lot
of it. Those men oughtn't to be called cowards. It's as much a fit,
say, as epilepsy. Allowances ought to made for them."

It was a warm day, the windows were closed, my valetudinarian hostess
having a horror of draughts, and a cheery fire was blazing up the
chimney. Boyce took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

"Dear old mother," said he, "you keep this room like an oven."

"It is you who have got so excited talking, dear," said Mrs. Boyce.
"I'm sure it can't be good for your heart. It is just the same with me.
I remember I had to speak quite severely to Mary a week--no, to-day's
Tuesday--ten days ago, and I had dreadful palpitations afterwards and
broke out into a profuse perspiration and had to send for Doctor Miles."

"Now, that's funny," said I. "When I'm excited about anything I grow
quite cold."

Boyce lit a cigarette and laughed. "I don't see where the excitement in
the present case comes in. Mother started an interesting hare, and I
followed it up. Anyhow--" he threw himself on the sofa, blew a kiss to
his mother in the most charming way in the world, and smiled on
me--"anyhow, to see you two in this dearest bit of dear old England is
like a dream. And I'm not going to think of the waking up. I want all
the cushions and the lavender and the neat maid's caps and aprons--I
said to Mary this morning when she drew my curtains: 'Stay just there
and let me look at you so that I can realise I'm at home and not in my
little grey trench in West Flanders'--she got red and no doubt thought
me a lunatic and felt inclined to squawk--but she stayed and looked
jolly pretty and refreshing--only for a minute or two, after which I
dismissed her--yes, my dears, I want everything that the old life
means, the white table linen, the spring flowers, the scent of the air
which has never known the taint of death, and all that this beautiful
mother of England, with her knitting needles, stands for. I want to
have a debauch of sweet and beautiful things."

"As far as I can give them you shall have them. My dear--" she dropped
her knitting in her lap and looked over at him tragically--"I quite
forgot to ask. Did Mary put bath-salts, as I ordered, into your bath
this morning?"

Leonard threw away his cigarette and slapped his leg.

"By George!" he cried. "That explains it. I was wondering where the
Dickens that smell of