pered
woman." She laughed.

"Dear old boy," he said. He was watching her with a little smile. "I'm
glad he's got some luck at last."

They dined in the great restaurant belonging to the hotel. He was still
vastly pleased with himself as he marched up the crowded room with Joan
upon his arm. He held himself upright and talked and laughed perhaps
louder than an elderly gentleman should. "Swaggering old beggar," he
must have overheard a young sub. mutter as they passed. But he did not
seem to mind it.

They lingered over the meal. Folk was a brilliant talker. Most of the
men whose names were filling the newspapers had sat to him at one time or
another. He made them seem quite human. Joan was surprised at the time.

"Come up to my rooms, will you?" he asked. "There's something I want to
say to you. And then I'll walk back with you." She was staying at a
small hotel off Jermyn Street.

He sat her down by the fire and went into the next room. He had a letter
in his hand when he returned. Joan noticed that the envelope was written
upon across the corner, but she was not near enough to distinguish the
handwriting. He placed it on the mantelpiece and sat down opposite her.

"So you have come to love the dear old chap," he said.

"I have always loved him," Joan answered. "It was he didn't love me, for
a time, as I thought. But I know now that he does."

He was silent for a few moments, and then he leant across and took her
hands in his.

"I am going," he said, "where there is just the possibility of an
accident: one never knows. I wanted to be sure that all was well with
you."

He was looking at the ring upon her hand.

"A soldier boy?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered. "If he comes back." There was a little catch in
her voice.

"I know he'll come back," he said. "I won't tell you why I am so sure.
Perhaps you wouldn't believe." He was still holding her hands, looking
into her eyes.

"Tell me," he said, "did you see your mother before she died. Did she
speak to you?"

"No," Joan answered. "I was too late. She had died the night before. I
hardly recognized her when I saw her. She looked so sweet and young."

"She loved you very dearly," he said. "Better than herself. All those
years of sorrow: they came to her because of that. I thought it foolish
of her at the time, but now I know she was wise. I want you always to
love and honour her. I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't right."