e in. He entered abruptly. His air, and
when he spoke, his manner, struck Sabre as being deliberately
aggressive. "Well, Harold's gone," he said.

"Yes, I'm jolly glad for the boy's sake. I was just congratulating him.
I think it's splendid of him."

Twyning breathed heavily through his nose. "Splendid? Hur! He wanted to
go long ago. Well, he's gone now and I hope you're satisfied."

Sabre turned in his chair and questioned Twyning with puckered brows.
"Satisfied? What on earth do you mean--satisfied?"

"You always thought he ought to go. You're one of those who've sent him
off. My boy saw it."

"You're talking nonsense. I've never so much as mentioned the subject to
Harold. I told you long ago that I think every man's his own judge, and
sole judge, in this business."

Twyning always retracted when Sabre showed signs of becoming roused.
"Ah, well, what does it matter? He's gone now. He'll be in this precious
khaki to-night. No one can point at him now." He drew out a handkerchief
and wiped his eyes slowly. He stared inimically at Sabre. "I'll tell you
one thing, Sabre. You wait till you've got a son, then you'll think
differently, perhaps. You don't know what my boy means to me. He's
everything in the world to me. I got him in here so as to have him with
me and now this cursed war's taken him. You don't know what he is, my
boy Harold. He's a better man than his father, I'll tell you that. He's
a good Christian boy. He's never had a bad thought or said a bad word."

He broke off. He rammed his handkerchief into his trouser pocket. As
though the sight of Sabre sitting before him suddenly infuriated him he
broke out, "It's all right for you sitting there. You're not going.
Never mind. My boy Harold's gone. You're satisfied. All right."

Sabre got up. "Look here, Twyning, I'm sorry for you about Harold. I
make allowances for you. But--"

When Twyning was angry his speech sometimes betrayed that on which he
was most sensitive. "I don't want you to make no allowances for me. I
don't--"

"You've repeated the stupid implication you made when you first came
in."

Twyning changed to a hearty laugh. "Oh, I say, steady, old man. Don't
let's have a row. Nothing to have a row about, old man. I made no
implication. Whatever for should I? No, no, I simply said '_All_ right.'
I say people have sent my boy Harold off, and I'm merely saying '_All_
right. He's gone. Now perhaps you're satisfied.' Not you, old man. Other
peopl