Nineteen! yes, one called a lad young at nineteen even in those pitiless days.  Under normal conditions he would have had two or three years’ more training before he was required to shoulder the responsibilities and develop the braced muscles of manhood.

“Anyhow it’s all over now—­”

“No, you forget.”  A wave of colour swept over Val’s face but his voice was steady.  “Through me the regiment holds a distinction it hasn’t earned, and the distinction is in hands that don’t deserve to hold it.  That isn’t consonant with the traditions of the service.”

“Oh, when it comes to the honour of the Army—!” Lawrence jeered at him.  “There speaks the soldier born and bred.  But I was only a ‘temporary.’  Give me a personal reason.”

“Well, I can do that too!  I hate sailing under false colours.  The good folk of Chilmark; my own people; Bernard, Laura . . . .”  Lawrence’s eyes began to sparkle:  when a man’s voice deepens over a woman’s name—!  “Oh, I dare say nothing will ever come of it,” Val resumed after a moment:  “my father may live another thirty years, and by that time I should be too old to stand in a white sheet.  Or perhaps I shall only tell one or two people—­”

“Mrs. Clowes?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You would like to tell my cousin and his wife?”

“I should like to feel myself a free agent, which I’m not now, because I’m under parole to you.”

“And so you will remain,” said Lawrence coldly.

“You mean that?”

“Thoroughly.  I’ve no wish to distress you, Val, but I’m no more convinced now than I was ten years ago that you can be trusted to judge for yourself.  You were an impulsive boy then with remarkably little self-control:  you’re—­forgive my saying so—­an impulsive man now, capable of doing things that in five minutes you would be uncommonly sorry for.  How long would Bernard keep your secret?  If I’m not much mistaken you would lose your billet and the whole county would hear why.  The whole thing’s utter rubbish.  You make too much of your ribbon:  you—­I—­it would never have been given if Dale’s father hadn’t been a brass hat.”

Stafford was ashy pale.  “I know you think you’re just.”

“No, I don’t.  I’m not just, my good chap:  I’m weakly, idiotically generous.  In your heart of hearts you’re grateful to me.  Now let’s drop all this.  Nothing you can say will have the slightest effect, so you may as well not say it.”  He stood by Val’s chair, laughing down at him and gently gripping him by the shoulder.  “Be a man, Val! you’re not nineteen now.  You’ve got a comfortable job and the esteem of all who know you—­take it and be thankful:  it’s more than you deserve.  If you must indulge in a hair shirt, wear it under your clothes.  It isn’t necessary to embarrass other people by undressing in public.”