“I really think that dad feels more bloodthirsty when he talks about some of our politicians than he does about the Germans,” she declared.

“Some of our worst enemies are at home, any way,” Sir Seymour insisted, “and we shall never get on with the war till we’ve weeded them out.”

“Where did the nearest bomb to you drop?” Thomson inquired.

“The corner of St. James’s Street,” Sir Seymour replied.  “There were two houses in Berkeley Street alight, and a hole in the roof of a house in Hay Hill.  The bomb there didn’t explode, though.  Sad thing about young Granet, wasn’t it?  He seems to be the only service man who suffered at all.”

Lady Conyers shivered sympathetically.

“It was perfectly ghastly,” she murmured.

“A very promising young officer, I should think,” the Admiral continued, “and a very sad death.  Brings things home to you when you remember that it was only yesterday he was here, poor fellow!”

Geraldine and her mother rose from their places, a few minutes later.  The latter looked up at Thomson as he held open the door.

“You won’t be long, will you?” she begged.

“You can take him with you, if you like,” the Admiral declared, also rising to his feet.  “He doesn’t drink port and the cigarettes are in your room.  I have to take the Chair at a recruiting meeting at Holborn in a quarter of an hour.  The car’s waiting now.  You’ll excuse me, won’t you, Thomson?”

“Of course,” the latter assented.  “I must leave early myself.  I have to go back to the War Office.”

Geraldine took his arm and led him into the little morning-room.

“You see, I am carrying you off in the most bare-faced fashion,” she began, motioning him to a seat by her side, “but really you are such an elusive person, and only this morning, in the midst of that awful thunder of bombs, when we stood on the roof and looked at London breaking out into flames, I couldn’t help thinking—­remembering, I mean—­how short a time it is since you and I were face to face with the other horror and you saved my life.  Do you know, I don’t think that I have ever said ’thank you’—­not properly?”

“I think the words may go,” he answered, smiling.  “It was a horrible time while it lasted but it was soon over.  The worst part of it was seeing those others, whom we could not help, drifting by.”

“I should have been with them but for you,” she said quietly.  “Don’t think that I don’t know it.  Don’t think that I don’t regret sometimes, Hugh, that I didn’t trust you a little more completely.  You are right about so many things.  But, Hugh, will you tell me something?”

“Of course!”

“Why were you so almost obstinately silent when father spoke of poor Captain Granet’s death?”

“Because I couldn’t agree with what he said,” Thomson replied.  “I think that Granet’s death in exactly that fashion was the best thing that could possibly have happened for him and for all of us.”