In his small official capacity as Mayor of Wellingsford, he was but the mouthpiece of a national sentiment.  And more than that.  This ceremony was an appeal to the unimaginative, the sluggish, the faint-hearted.  In its little way—­and please remember that all tremendous enthusiasms are fit by these little fires—­it was a proclamation of the undying glory of England.  It was impersonal, it was national, it was Imperial.  In its little way it was of vast, far-reaching importance.

I want you to remember these things in order that you should understand the mental processes, or soul processes, or whatever you like, of Sir Anthony Fenimore.  Picture him.  The most unheroic little man you can imagine.  Clean-shaven, bullet-headed, close-cropped, his face ruddy and wrinkled like a withered apple, his eyes a misty blue, his big nose marked like a network of veins, his hands glazed and reddened, like his face, by wind and weather; standing, even under his mayoral robes, like a jockey.  Of course he had the undefinable air of breeding; no one could have mistaken his class.  But he was an undistinguished, very ordinary looking little man; and indeed he had done nothing for the past half century to distinguish himself above his fellows.  There are thousands of his type, masters of English country houses.  And of all the thousands, every one brought up against the stern issues of life would have acted like Anthony Fenimore.  I say “would have acted,” but anyone who has lived in England during the war knows that they have so acted.  These incarnations of the commonplace, the object of the disdain, before the war, of the self-styled “intellectuals”—­if the war sweeps the insufferable term into oblivion it will have done some good—­these honest unassuming gentlemen have responded heroically to the great appeal; and when the intellectuals have thought of their intellects or their skins, they have thought only of their duty.  And it was only the heroical sense of duty that sustained Sir Anthony Fenimore that day.

I did not see the reception at the Railway Station or join the triumphal procession; but went early to the Town Hall and took my seat on the platform.  I glibly say “took my seat.”  A wheel-chair, sent there previously, was hoisted, with me inside, on to the platform by Marigold and a porter.  After all these years, I still hate to be publicly paraded, like a grizzled baby, in Marigold’s arms.  For convenience’ sake I was posted at the front left-hand corner.  The hall soon filled.  The first three rows of seats were reserved for the recipients of the municipality’s special invitation; the remainder were occupied by the successful applicants for tickets.  From my almost solitary perch I watched the fluttering and excited crowd.  The town band in the organ gallery at the further end discoursed martial music.  From the main door beneath them ran the central gangway to the platform.  I recognised many friends.  In the front row with her two aunts sat Betty, very demure in her widow’s hat relieved by its little white band of frilly stuff beneath the brim.  She looked unusually pale.  I could not help watching her intently and trying to divine how much she knew of the story of Boyce and Althea.  She caught my eye, nodded, and smiled wanly.