nry's engagement to Mary, he was full of cheers. "Good!" he said. "Now
I shall be able to keep you in order, young fellow. I shall be a
Relation!..."

"Oh, I've a note for you," he exclaimed, as they drove home. "It's from
Gilbert. I met him in town. He'll be on his way out before I get back.
He'd like to have come down here, but he couldn't manage it. He sent his
love to you, Mary, and you, mother! He looks jolly fit ... never seen
him look fitter!"

He handed Gilbert's note to Henry who put it in his pocket. He would
read it, he told himself, when he was alone.

"We're hopping off to France next week," Ninian said. "I suppose," he
added, turning again to Henry, "you saw that Jimphy Jayne was killed.
Rough luck, wasn't it? I met a fellow who was in his regiment ... home
on sick-leave ... and he says Jimphy fought like fifty. Gilbert says
Cecily's bearing up wonderfully!"

"He's seen her then?" Henry asked.

"Yes. She met him in the street ... and as he says, she's bearing up
wonderfully. He didn't say a great deal, but I imagine he didn't admire
the attitude much. Rum woman, Cecily!" He had grown together more since
he had been to South America, and his figure, that was always
loose-looking and a little hulking, had been tightened up by his
training.

"I don't like your moustache, Ninian," his mother said, looking with
disfavour at the "tooth-brush" on his upper lip.

"Nor do I," he replied, "but you have to wear something on your face ...
they don't think you can fight if you don't ... and this sort of thing
is the least a chap can do for his king and country. When are you two
going to get married?"

His conversation jumped about like a squib.

"Oh, not yet," Mrs. Graham hurriedly exclaimed. "There's plenty of
time...."

"I should like to get married at once," said Henry.

"No, not yet," Mrs. Graham insisted. "I won't be left alone yet
awhile...."

There was a learned discourse from Ninian on lengthy engagements which
filled the time until the carriage drove up to Boveyhayne House, where
it was dropped as suddenly as it was begun.

Indoors, Henry read Gilbert's letter.

* * * * *

"_My dear Quinny_," he wrote, "_I'm writing this in Soho with a pen that
was made in hell._" Then there was a splutter of ink. "_There_," the
letter went on, "_that's the sort of thing it does. I believe this pen
was brought to Soho by the first Frenchman to open a cafe here, and it's
been