“The unexpected sometimes happens,” I remarked.  “And then comes catastrophe; in this case not to the woman.”  I cannot say that my tone was sympathetic.  I had cause for interest in his artless tale, but it was cold and dispassionate.  “Tell me,” I continued, “when did you discover the diabolical nature of the man Gedge?”

“Last night.”

“And when did you ask Phyllis to marry you?”

“A week ago.”

“What’s going to happen now?” I asked.

“I’m hanged if I know,” said he, gloomily.

I was in no mood to offer the young man any advice.  The poor little wretch at the hospital—­so Betty had told me—­was crying her eyes out for him; but it was not for his soul’s good that he should know it.

“In heroic days,” said I, “a hopeless lover always found a sovereign remedy against an obdurate mistress.”

He rose and buttoned up his canvas jacket.

“I know what you mean,” he said.  “And I didn’t come to discuss it —­if you’ll excuse my apparent rudeness in saying so.”

“Then things are as they were between us.”

“Not quite, I hope,” he replied in a dignified way.  “When last you spoke to me about Phyllis Gedge, I really didn’t know my own mind.  I am not a cad and the thought of—­of anything wrong never entered my head.  On the other hand, marriage seemed out of the question.”

“I remember,” said I, “you talked some blithering rot about her being a symbol.”

“I am quite willing to confess I was a fool,” he admitted gracefully.  “And I merited your strictures.”

His reversion to artificiality annoyed me.  I’m far from being of an angelic disposition.

“My dear boy,” I cried.  “Do, for God’s sake, talk human English, and not the New Oxford Dictionary.”

He flushed angrily, snapped an impatient finger and thumb, and marched away to the gravel path.  I sang out sharply: 

“Randall!”

He turned.  I cried: 

“Come here at once.”

He came with sullen reluctance.  Afterwards I was rather tickled at realizing that the lame old war-dog had so much authority left.  If he had gone defiantly off, I should have felt rather a fool.

“My dear boy,” I said, “I didn’t mean to insult you.  But can’t a clever fellow like you understand that all the pretty frills and preciousness of a year ago are as dead as last year’s Brussels sprouts?  We’re up against elemental things and can only get at them with elemental ideas expressed in elemental language.”

“I’d have you to know,” said Randall, “that I spoke classical English.”

“Quite so,” said I.  “But the men of to-day speak Saxon English, Cockney English, slang English, any damned sort of English that is virile and spontaneous.  As I say, you’re a clever fellow.  Can’t you see my point?  Speech is an index of mental attitude.  I bet you what you like Phyllis Gedge would see it at once.  Just imagine a subaltern at the front after a bad quarter of an hour with his Colonel—­’I’ve merited your strictures, sir!’ If there was a bomb handy, the Colonel would catch it up and slay him on the spot.”