tically all the staff deserted what Randall called the Cause and
dribbled away into the army," she replied mournfully.

As to what this precious Cause meant I did not enquire, having no wish
to enter into an argument with the good lady which might have become
exacerbated. Besides, she would only have parroted Randall. I had never
yet detected her in the expression of an original idea.

"Perhaps he has dribbled away too?" I suggested grimly. She was silent.
I bent forward. "Wouldn't you like him to dribble into the great flood?"

She lifted her lean shoulders despairingly.

"He's the only son of a widow. Even in France and Germany they're not
expected to fight. But if he were different I would let him go
gladly--I'm not selfish and unpatriotic, Major," she said with an
unaccustomed little catch in her throat--and for the very first time I
found in her something sympathetic--"but," she continued, "it seems so
foolish to sacrifice all his intellectual brilliance to such crudities
as fighting, when it might be employed so much more advantageously
elsewhere."

"But, good God, my dear lady!" I cried. "Where are your wits? Where's
your education? Where's your intelligent understanding of the daily
papers? Where's your commonsense?"--I'm afraid I was brutally rude.
"Can't you give a minute's thought to the situation? If there's one
institution on earth that's shrieking aloud for intellectual
brilliance, it's the British Army! Do you think it's a refuge for
fools? Do you think any born imbecile is good enough to outwit the
German Headquarters Staff? Do you think the lives of hundreds of his
men--and perhaps the fate of thousands--can be entrusted to any
brainless ass? An officer can't have too much brains. We're clamouring
for brains. It's the healthy, brilliant-brained men like Randall that
the Army's yelling for--simply yelling for," I repeated, bringing my
hand down on the arm of my chair.

Two little red spots showed on each side of her thin face.

"I've never looked at it in that light before," she admitted.

"Of course I agree with you," I said diplomatically, "that Randall
would be more or less wasted as a private soldier. The heroic stuff of
which Thomas Atkins is made is, thank God, illimitable. But intellect
is rare--especially in the ranks of God's own chosen, the British
officer. And Randall is of the kind we want as officers. As for a
commission, he could get one any day. I could get one for him myself. I
s