appy, and they thought he had
forgotten. But on the first evening at Hampstead, as Frances kissed him
Good-night, he said: "Shall I have to see Mr. Parsons to-morrow?"

Frances said: "Yes. Of course."

"I'd rather not."

"Nonsense, you must get over that."

"I--can't, Mummy."

"Oh, Nicky, can't you forgive poor Mr. Parsons? When he was so unhappy?"

Nicky meditated.

"Do you think," he said at last, "he really minded?"

"I'm sure he did."

"As much as you and Daddy?"

"Quite as much."

"Then," said Nicky, "I'll forgive him."

But, though he forgave John and Mr. Parsons and even God, who, to do him
justice, did not seem to have been able to help it, Nicky did not
forgive himself.

Yet Frances never could think why the sight of mustard and cress made
Nicky sick. Neither did Mr. Parsons, nor any schoolmaster who came after
him understand why, when Nicky knew all the rest of the verb [Greek:
erchomai] by heart he was unable to remember the second aorist.

He excellent memory, but there was always a gap in it just there.

VI

In that peace and tranquillity where nothing ever happened, Jerry's
violent death would have counted as an event, a date to reckon by; but
for three memorable things that happened, one after another, in the
summer and autumn of 'ninety-nine: the return of Frances's brother,
Maurice Fleming, from Australia where Anthony had sent him two years
ago, on the express understanding that he was to stay there; the
simultaneous arrival of Anthony's brother, Bartholomew, and his family;
and the outbreak of the Boer War.

The return of Morrie was not altogether unforeseen, and Bartholomew had
announced his coming well beforehand, but who could have dreamed that at
the end of the nineteenth century England would be engaged in a War that
really _was_ a War? Frances, with the _Times_ in her hands, supposed
that that meant more meddling and muddling of stupid politicians, and
that it would mean more silly speeches in Parliament, and copy, at last,
for foolish violent, pathetic and desperate editors, and breach of
promise cases, divorces and fires in paraffin shops reduced to momentary
insignificance.

But as yet there was no war, nor any appearance that sensible people
interpreted as a sign of war at the time of Morrie's return. It stood
alone, as other past returns, the return from Bombay, the return from
Canada, the return from Cape Colony, had stood, in its sheer awfulness.
To Frances it