know Mrs. James Quinn, I think.
That's a pity. She's the most domesticated and virtuous _haus-frau_ in
the world.'

He paused, and then asked Hyacinth, 'Why are you doing it?'

Again Hyacinth was reduced by sheer surprise to a futility.

'Doing what?'

'Oh, going out to fight for the Boers. Now, don't, like a good fellow,
say you're acting on principle. It's all well enough to give Finola
credit for that kind of thing. She is, as we agreed, a splendid woman.
But you mustn't ask me to believe in the whole corps in the same way.'

Hyacinth meditated a reply. It was clearly impossible to assert that
he wanted to fight for liberty, to give his life to the cause of an
oppressed nationality. It would be utterly absurd to tell the story of
his father's vision, and say that he looked on the South African War
as a skirmish preliminary to the Armageddon. Sitting opposite to this
cynical man of the world and listening to his talk, Hyacinth came
himself to disbelieve in principle. He felt that there must be some
baser motive at the bottom of his desire to fight, only, for the life of
him, he could not remember what it was. He could not even imagine a good
reason--good in the estimation of his companion--why anyone should do so
foolish a thing as go out to the Transvaal. The Captain was not at all
impatient. He sat smoking quietly, until there seemed no prospect of
Hyacinth answering; then he said:

'Well, if you don't want to tell me, I don't mind. Only I think you're
foolish. You see, little accidents happen in these affairs. There are
such things as bullets, and one of them might hit you somewhere that
would matter. Then it would be my duty to send home your last words to
your sorrowing relatives, and it would be easier to do that if I knew
exactly what you had done. The death-bed repentance of the prodigal
is always most consoling to the elder brother--much more consoling, in
fact, than the prodigal's return. Now, how the deuce am I to make up a
plausible repentance for you, if I don't know what you've done?'

'But I've not done anything,' said Hyacinth ineffectively.

The Captain ignored him.

'Come, now, it can't be anything very bad at your age. Have you got
into a mess with a girl? Or'--he brightened up at the guess--'are
you hopelessly enamoured of the beautiful Finola? That would be most
suitable. The bold, bad woman sends the minstrel boy to his death,
with his wild harp slung behind him. I could draw tears from