and personally as
brave as a lion, but when it comes to the regiment, he's too much on
the cautious side. The regiment's only longing to make things hum, and
I'm going to let 'em do it."

I congratulated him in politely appropriate terms and went on with my
bacon and eggs. He sat on the window-seat and tapped his gaiters with
his cane life-preserver. He wore his cap.

"I thought you'd like to know," said he. "You've been so good to the
old mother while I've been away and been so charitable, listening to my
yarns, while I've been here, that I couldn't resist coming round and
telling you."

"I suppose your mother's delighted," said I.

He threw back his head and laughed, as though he had never a black
thought or memory in the world.

"Dear old mater! She has the impression that I'm going out to take
charge of the blessed campaign. So if she talks about 'my dear son's
army,' don't let her down, like a good chap--for she'll think either me
a fraud or you a liar."

He rose suddenly, with a change of expression.

"You're the only man in the world I could talk to like this about my
mother. You know the sterling goodness and loyalty that lies beneath
her funny little ways."

He strode to the window which looks out on to the garden, his back
turned on me. And there he stood silent for a considerable time. I
helped myself to marmalade and poured out a second cup of tea. There
was no call for me to speak. I had long realized that, whatever may
have been the man's sins and weaknesses, he had a very deep and tender
love for the Dresden china old lady that was his mother. There was
London of the clubs and the theatres and the restaurants and the
night-clubs, a war London full and alive, not dead as in Augusts of
far-off tradition, all ready to give him talk and gaiety and the things
that matter to the man who escapes for a brief season from the
never-ending hell of the battlefield; ready, too, to pour flattery into
his ear, to touch his scars with the softest of its lingers. Yet he
chose to stay, a recluse, in our dull little town, avoiding even the
kindly folk round about, in order to devote himself to one dear but
entirely uninteresting old woman. It is not that he despised London,
preferring the life of the country gentleman. On the contrary, before
the war Leonard Boyce was very much the man about town. He loved the
glitter and the chatter of it. From chance words during this spell of
leave, I had divined hankering aft