“No, father,” said Hilda shortly, and bent over her plate.

“’Xtraordinary thing.  He’s a smart chap, and I should have thought he’d have been full of it.  Perhaps he’s too far back.”

“He was in a big town he doesn’t name the other day, in an air-raid, and a man was killed in his carriage.”

“Good Lord! you don’t say so?  When did you hear that?  I thought we had command of the air.”

“I got a letter to-night, father.  He just mentioned that, but he doesn’t say much else about it.  He’s at Abbeville now, on the Somme, and he says the Germans come over fairly often by night.”

“Impossible!” snorted the old man, “I have it on the best possible authority that our air service is completely up to date now, and far better than the German.  He must be exaggerating.  They would never allow the enemy to out-distance us in so important a department.  What else does he say?”

“Oh, nothing;” said Hilda, “or at least nothing about the war in a way.  It’s full of—­of his work.”  She stopped abruptly.

“Well, well,” said Mr. Lessing, “I was against his going at first; but it’s all shoulders to the wheel now, and it was plain he ought to see a little life out there.  A young man who doesn’t won’t have much of a look in afterwards—­that’s how I reasoned it.  And he works hard, does Graham; I’ve always said that for him, I expect he’s of great service to them.  Eh, Hilda?”

“I don’t know,” said the girl; “he doesn’t say.  But he’s been chosen for some special work, lecturing or something, and that’s why he’s at Abbeville.”

“Ah!  Good!  Special work, eh?  He’ll go far yet, that fellow.  I don’t know that I’d have chosen him for you, Hilda, at first, but this business has shaken us all up, and I shouldn’t be surprised if Graham comes to the front over it.”  He stopped as the maid came in, “I think I’ll have my coffee in the study, my dear,” he said to Mrs. Lessing; “I have some reading to do.”

When the two women were once more alone Mrs. Lessing put her cup down, and spoke.  “What is it, dear?” she questioned.

Hilda did not look at her.  The two, indeed, understood each other very well.  “I can’t tell you here, mother,” she said.

“Come, then, dear,” said Mrs. Lessing, rising.  “Let’s go to my room.  Your father will be busy for some time, and we shall not be disturbed there.”

She led the way, and lit a small gas fire.  “I can’t be cold in my bedroom,” she said; “and though I hate these things, they are better than nothing.  Now, dear, what is it?”

Hilda seated herself on a footstool on the other side of the fire, and stared into it.  The light shone on her fair skin and hair, and Mrs. Lessing contemplated her with satisfaction from several points of view.  For one thing, Hilda was so sensible....

“What is it?” she asked again.  “Your father saw nothing—­men don’t; but you can’t hide from me, dear, that your letter has troubled you.  Is Peter in trouble?”