The Reminder of what?  He puzzled me.  Why, in spite of all my open-heartedness, did he still contrive to leave me with a sense of the enigmatic?

Although he showed himself openly about the town, he held himself aloof from social intercourse with the inhabitants.  He called, I know, on Mrs. Holmes, and on one or two others who have no place in this chronicle.  But he refused all proposals of entertainment, notably an invitation to dinner from the Fenimores.  Sir Anthony met him in the street, upbraided him in his genial manner for neglect of his old friends, and pressingly asked him to dine at Wellings Park.  Just a few old friends.  The duties of a distinguished soldier, said he, did not begin and end on the field.  He must uplift the hearts of those who had to stay at home.  Sir Anthony had a nervous trick of rattling off many sentences before his interlocutor could get in a word.  When he had finished, Boyce politely declined the invitation.

“And with a damned chilly, stand-offish politeness,” cried Sir Anthony furiously, when telling me about it.  “Just as if I had been Perkins, the fish-monger, asking him to meet the Prettiloves at high tea.  It’s swelled head, my dear chap; that’s what it is.  Just swelled head.  None of us are good enough for him and his laurels.  He’s going to remain the modest mossy violet of a hero blushing unseen.  Oh, damn the fellow!”

I did my best to soothe my touchy and choleric friend.  No soldier, said I, likes to be made a show of.  Why had he suggested a dinner party?  A few friends.  Anyone in Boyce’s position knew what that meant.  It meant about thirty gawking, gaping people for whom he didn’t care a hang.  Why hadn’t Anthony asked the Boyces to dine quietly with Edith and himself—­with me thrown in, for instance, if they wanted exotic assistance?  Let me try, I said, to fix matters up.

So the next day I called on Boyce and told him, with such tact as I have at command, of Sir Anthony’s wounded feelings.

“My dear Meredyth,” said he.  “I can only say to you what I tried to explain to the irascible little man.  If I accepted one invitation, I should have to accept all invitations or give terrible offence all over the place.  I’m here a sick man and my mother’s an invalid.  And I merely want to be saved from my friends and have a quiet time with the old lady.  Of course if Sir Anthony is offended, I’m only too sorry, and I beg you to assure him that I never intended the slightest discourtesy.  The mere idea of it distresses me.”

The explanation was reasonable, the apology frank.  Sir Anthony received them both grumpily.  He had his foibles.  He set his invitations to dinner in a separate category from those of the rag-tag and bobtail of Wellingsford society.  So for the sake of principle he continued to damn the fellow.