looked me clearly in the eyes and smiled, and her hand did not
shake as she held my cup. And by these signs I knew that she had taken
herself again in grip and forbade reference to the agony through which
she had passed.

Quickly she turned the conversation to the Tuftons. What had happened?
I told her meagrely. She insisted on fuller details. So, flogged by
her, I related what I had gleaned from Marigold's wooden reports. He
always conveyed personal information as though he were giving evidence
against a defaulter. I had to start all over again. Apparently this had
happened: Mrs. Tufton had arrayed herself, not in sackcloth and ashes,
for that was apparently her normal attire, but in an equivalent, as far
as a symbol of humility was concerned; namely, in decent raiment, and
had sought her husband's forgiveness. There had been a touching scene
in the scullery which Mrs. Marigold had given up to them for the sake
of privacy, in which the lady had made tearful promises of reform and
the corporal had magnanimously passed the sponge over the terrible
reckoning on her slate. Would he then go home to his penitent wife? But
the gallant fellow, with the sturdy common-sense for which the British
soldier is renowned, contrasted the clover in which he was living here
with the aridness of Flowery End, and declined to budge. High sentiment
was one thing, snug lying was another. Next time he came back, if she
had re-established the home in its former comfort, he didn't say as how
he wouldn't--

"But," she cried--and this bit I didn't tell Betty--"the next time you
may come home dead!"

"Then," replied Tufton, "let me see what a nice respectable coffin,
with brass handles and lots of slap-up brass nails and a brass plate,
you can get ready for me."

Since the first interview, I informed Betty, there had been others
daily--most decorous. They were excellent friends. Neither seemed to
perceive anything absurd in the situation. Even Marigold looked on it
as a matter of course.

"I have an idea," said Betty. "You know we want some help in the
servant staff of the hospital?"

I did. The matron had informed the Committee, who had empowered her to
act.

"Why not let me tackle Mrs. Tufton while she is in this beautifully
chastened and devotional mood? In this way we can get her out of the
mills, out of Flowery End, fill her up with noble and patriotic
emotions instead of whisky, and when Tufton returns, present her to him
as a model