the office.

Left alone with Wellington, Sir Terence heaved a great sigh of supreme
relief.

"In my wife's name, sir, I should like to thank you. But she shall thank
you herself for what you have done for me."

"What I have done for you, O'Moy?" Wellington's slight figure stiffened
perceptibly, his face and glance were cold and haughty. "You mistake,
I think, or else you did not hear. What I have done, I have done solely
upon grounds of political expediency. I had no choice in the matter, and
it was not to favour you, or out of disregard for my duty, as you seem
to imagine, that I acted as I did."

O'Moy bowed his head, crushed under that rebuff. He clasped and
unclasped his hands a moment in his desperate anguish.

"I understand," he muttered in a broken voice, "I--I beg your pardon,
sir."

And then Wellington's slender, firm fingers took him by the arm.

"But I am glad, O'Moy, that I had no choice," he added more gently. "As
a man, I suppose I may be glad that my duty as Commander-in-Chief placed
me under the necessity of acting as I have done."

Sir Terence clutched the hand in both his own and wrung it fiercely,
obeying an overmastering impulse.

"Thank you," he cried. "Thank you for that!"

"Tush!" said Wellington, and then abruptly: "What are you going to do,
O'Moy?" he asked.

"Do?" said O'Moy, and his blue eyes looked pleadingly down into the
sternly handsome face of his chief, "I am in your hands, sir."

"Your resignation is, and there it must remain, O'Moy. You understand?"

"Of course, sir. Naturally you could not after this--" He shrugged and
broke off. "But must I go home?" he pleaded.

"What else? And, by God, sir, you should be thankful, I think."

"Very well," was the dull answer, and then he flared out. "Faith, it's
your own fault for giving me a job of this kind. You knew me. You know
that I am just a blunt, simple soldier--that my place is at the head of
a regiment, not at the head of an administration. You should have known
that by putting me out of my proper element I was bound to get into
trouble sooner or later."

"Perhaps I do," said Wellington. "But what am I to do with you now?" He
shrugged, and strode towards the window. "You had better go home, O'Moy.
Your health has suffered out here, and you are not equal to the heat of
summer that is now increasing. That is the reason of this resignation.
You understand?"

"I shall be shamed for ever," said O'Moy. "To go home when the