the great secret. He had kept it to himself. He might have burst
into the kitchen--for he was very apt to be informal--and said: "Well,
cook, I'm going into the Army!" What a household sensation the news
would cause, and what an office sensation! His action would affect the
lives of all manner of people. And the house, at present alive and
organic, would soon be dead. He was afraid. What he was doing was
tremendous. Was it madness? He had a feeling of unreality.

At the entrance to the Berkeley Hotel lay a large automobile, with a
spurred and highly polished military chauffeur. At the door of Colonel
Rannion's room was stationed a spurred and highly polished, erect
orderly--formidable contrast to the flaccid waiters who slouched palely
in the corridors. The orderly went into the room and saluted with a
click. George followed, as into a dentist's surgery. It was a small,
elegant, private sitting-room resembling a boudoir. In the midst of
delicately tinted cushions and flower-vases stood Colonel Rannion,
grey-haired, blue-eyed, very straight, very tall, very slim--the
slimness accentuated by a close-fitted uniform which began with red tabs
and ended in light leggings and gleaming spurs. He conformed absolutely
to the traditional physical type of soldier, and the sight of him gave
pleasure.

"Good morning. Cannon. Glad to see you." He seemed to put a secret
meaning into the last words.

He shook hands as he spoke, firmly, decisively, efficiently.

"I hope I'm not troubling you too much," George began.

"Troubling me! Sit down. You want a commission. The Army wants to give
commissions to men like you. I think you would make a good officer."

"Of course I'm absolutely ignorant of the Army. Absolutely."

"Yes. What a pity that is! If you'd only been a pre-war Territorial you
might have done three weeks' urgent work for your country by this time."
The remark was a polite reproof.

"I might," admitted George, to whom the notion of working for his
country had never before occurred.

"Do you think you'd like the Artillery?" Colonel Rannion questioned
sharply. His tone was increasing in sharpness.

With an equal sharpness George answered unhesitatingly: "Yes, I
should."

"Can you ride?"

"I can _ride_. In holidays and so on I get on my mother's horses."

"Have you hunted?"

"Never."

"H'm!... Well, I know my friend Colonel Hullocher, who commands the
Second Brigade of--er--my Division, is short of an officer. Wo