hould I go and meet a man now, and perhaps grow to like him--and
then say good-bye to him, perhaps for ever?"

"Michael, do not talk like that. You are selfish and brutal. You've
grown up to be perfectly heartless, although you can be charming. I
think you'd better not see Lord Saxby. He'd be ashamed of you."

Michael rose in irritation.

"My dear mother, what on earth business is it of Lord Saxby's how I
behave? I don't understand what you mean by being ashamed of me. I have
lived all these years, and I've seen Lord Saxby once. He sent me some
Siamese stamps and some soldiers. I dare say he's a splendid chap. I
know I liked him terrifically, when I was a kid, and if he's killed I
shall be sorry--I shall be more than sorry--I shall be angry, furious
that for the sake of these insufferable rowdies another decent chap is
going to risk his life."

Mrs. Fane put out her hand to stop Michael's flowing tirade, but he paid
no attention, talking away less to her than to himself. Indeed, long
before he had finished, she made no pretence of listening, but merely
sat crying quietly.

"I've been thinking a good deal lately about this war," Michael
declared. "I'm beginning to doubt whether it's a just war, whether we
didn't simply set out on it for brag and money. I'm not sure that I want
to see the Boers conquered. They're a small independent nation, and they
have old-fashioned ideas and they're narrow-minded Bible-worshippers,
but there's something noble about them, something much nobler than there
is in these rotten adventurers who go out to fight them. Of course, I
don't mean by that people like Captain Ross or Lord Saxby. They're
gentlemen. They go either because it's their duty or because they think
it's their duty. And they're the ones that get killed. You don't hear of
these swaggerers in khaki being killed. I haven't heard yet of many of
them even going to the front at all. Oh, mother, I am fed up with the
rotten core of everything that looks so fine on the outside."

Mrs. Fane was now crying loud enough to make Michael stop in sudden
embarrassment.

"I say, mother, don't cry. I expect I've been talking nonsense," he
softly told her.

"I don't know where you get these views. I was always so proud of you. I
thought you were charming and mysterious, and you're simply vulgar!"

"Vulgar?" echoed Michael in dismay.

Mrs. Fane nodded vehemently.

"Oh, well, if I'm vulgar, I'll go."

Michael hurried to the door.