But as Rachel stood still, an odd misgiving seized her, a certain doubt whether upon the tall lazy figure that was leaning against a wall nearly opposite to her, talking to another officer, she did not see something suspiciously bronze and eight-pointed that all did not wear.  There was clearly a medal, though with fewer clasps than some owned; but what else was there?  She thought of the lecture on heroism she had given to him, and felt hot all over.  Behold, he was skirting the line of chaperons, and making his way towards their party.  The thing grew more visible, and she felt more disconcerted than ever had been her lot before; but escape there was none, here he was shaking hands.

“You don’t polk?” he said to her.  “In fact, you regard all this as a delusion of weak minds.  Then, will you come and have some tea?”

Rachel took his arm, still bewildered, and when standing before him with the tea-cup in her hand, she interrupted something he was saying, she knew not what, with, “That is not the Victoria Cross?”

“Then it is, like all the rest, a delusion,” he answered, in his usual impassive manner.

“And gained,” she continued, “by saving the lives of all those officers, the very thing I told you about!”

“You told me that man was killed.”

“Then it was not you!”

“Perhaps they picked up the pieces of the wrong one.”

“But if you would only tell me how you gained it.”

“By the pursuit of conchology.”

“Then it was yourself?” again said Rachel, in her confusion.

“If I be I as I suppose I be,” he replied, giving her his arm again, and as they turned towards the conservatory, adding, “Many such things have happened, and I did not know whether you meant this.”

“That was the reason you made so light of it.”

“What, because I thought it was somebody else?”

“No, the contrary reason; but I cannot understand why you let me go on without telling me.”

“I never interfere when a story is so perfect in itself.”

“But is my story perfect in itself?” said Rachel, “or is it the contrary?”

“No one knows less of the particulars than I do,” he answered.  “I think your version was that it was an hospital tent that the shell came into.  It was not that, but a bungalow, which was supposed to be out of range.  It stood on a bit of a slope, and I thought I should have been able to kick the shell down before it had time to do mischief.”

“But you picked it up, and took it to the door—­I mean, did you?” said Rachel, who was beginning to discover that she must ask Alick Keith a direct question, if she wished to get an answer, and she received a gesture of assent.

“I was very blind,” she said, humbly, “and now I have gone and insisted to poor Emily Grey that you never did any such thing.”

“Thank you,” he said; “it was the greatest kindness you could do me.”