me significance.

"You did, did you?" said I. Then I looked at her quickly, with an idea
in my head. "What did Mrs. Boyce say in reply?"

"She has had no time to answer. Didn't I tell you I only posted the
letter to-day?"

"Then you've heard nothing more about Leonard Boyce except that he has
got the V.C.?"

"No. What more is there to hear?"

Even Bettys are sly folk. It behooved me to counter with equal slyness.
I wondered whether she had known all along of Boyce's mishap, or had
been informed of it by his mother. Knowledge might explain her unwonted
outburst. I looked at her fixedly.

"What's the matter?" she asked, bending slightly down to me.

"You haven't heard that he is wounded?"

She straightened herself. "No. When?"

"Five days ago."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I haven't seen you."

"I mean--this evening."

I reached for her hand. "Will you forgive me, my dear Betty, for
remarking that for the last twenty minutes you have done all the
talking?"

"Is he badly hurt?"

She ignored my playful rejoinder. I noted the fact. Usually she was
quick to play Beatrice to my Benedick. Had I caught her off her guard?

I told her all that I knew. She seated herself again on the piano-stool.

"I hope Mrs. Boyce did not think me unfeeling for not referring to it,"
she said calmly. "You will explain, won't you?"

Marigold entered, announcing dinner. We went into the dining-room. All
through the meal Bella, my parlour-maid, flitted about with dishes and
plates, and Marigold, when he was not solemnly pouring claret, stood
grim behind my chair, roasting, as usual, his posterior before a
blazing fire, with soldierly devotion to duty. Conversation fell a
little flat. The arrival of the evening newspapers, half an hour
belated, created a diversion. The war is sometimes subversive of nice
table decorum. I read out the cream of the news. Discussion thereon
lasted us until coffee and cigarettes were brought in and the servants
left us to ourselves.

One of the curious little phenomena of human intercourse is the fact
that now and again the outer personality of one with whom you are daily
familiar suddenly strikes you afresh, thus printing, as it were, a new
portrait on your mind. At varying intervals I had received such
portrait impressions of Betty, and I had stored them in my memory.
Another I received at this moment, and it is among the most delectable.
She was sitting with both elbows on the table, her palms