the aesthetic sense.  But the other eye, the sound left eye, is a wonder—­the precious jewel set in the head of the ugly toad.  It is large, of ultra-marine blue, steady, fearless, humorous, tender—­everything heroic and beautiful and romantic you can imagine about eyes.  Let him clap a hand over that eye and you will hold him the most dreadful ogre that ever escaped out of a fairy tale.  Let him clap a hand over the other eye and look full at you out of the good one and you will think him the Knightliest man that ever was—­and in my poor opinion, you would not be far wrong.

So, out of this nightmare of a face, the one beautiful eye of Sergeant Marigold was bent on me, as he delivered his message.

I thrust back my chair from the writing-table.

“Is Sir Anthony ill?”

“He rode by the gate an hour ago looking as well as either you or me, sir.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” said I.

Marigold did not take up the argument.  “They’ve sent the car for you, sir.”

“In that case,” said I, “I’ll start immediately.”

Marigold wheeled my chair out of the room and down the passage to the hall, where he fitted me with greatcoat and hat.  Then, having trundled me to the front gate, he picked me up—­luckily I have always been a small spare man—­and deposited me in the car.  I am always nervous of anyone but Marigold trying to carry me.  They seem to stagger and fumble and bungle.  Marigold’s arms close round me like an iron clamp and they lift me with the mechanical certainty of a crane.

He jumped up beside the chauffeur and we drove off.

Perhaps when I get on a little further I may acquire the trick of telling a story.  At present I am baffled by the many things that clamour for prior record.  Before bringing Sir Anthony on the scene, I feel I ought to say something more about myself, to explain why Lady Fenimore should have sent for me in so peremptory a fashion.  Following the model of my favourite author Balzac—­you need the awful leisure that has been mine to appreciate him—­I ought to describe the house in which I live, my establishment—­ well, I have begun with Sergeant Marigold—­and the little country town which is practically the scene of the drama in which were involved so many bound to me by close ties of friendship and affection.

I ought to explain how I come to be writing this at all.

Well, to fill in my time, I first started by a diary—­a sort of War Diary of Wellingsford, the little country town in question.  Then things happened with which my diary was inadequate to cope.  Everyone came and told me his or her side of the story.  All through, I found thrust upon me the parts of father-confessor, intermediary, judge, advocate, and conspirator....  For look you, what kind of a life can a man lead situated as I am?  The crowning glory of my days, my wife, is dead.  I have neither chick nor child.  No brothers or sisters, dead or alive.  The Bon Dieu and Sergeant Marigold (the latter assisted by his wife and a maid or two) look after my creature comforts.  What have I in the world to do that is worth doing save concern myself with my country and my friends?