“I had a brave wife, too,” said I, and for a few moments we talked shyly about the women who had played sacred parts in our lives.  Whether he was comforted by what I said I don’t know.  Probably he only listened politely.  But I think he found comfort in a sympathetic ear.

Presently he turned on to Boyce, the real motive of his summons.  He repented much that he had told and written to me.  His long defamation of the character of a brother-officer had lain on his conscience.  And lately he had, at last, met Boyce personally, and his generous heart had gone out to the man’s soldierly charm.

“I never felt such a slanderous brute in my life as when I shook him by the hand.  You know the feeling—­how one wants to get behind a hedge and kick oneself.  Kick oneself,” he repeated faintly.  Then he closed his eyes and his lips contracted in pain.

The Sister, who had been watching him from a distance, came up.  He had talked enough.  It was time to go.  But at the announcement he opened his eyes again and with an effort recovered his gaiety.

“The whole gist of the matter lies in the postscript.  Like a woman’s letter.  I must have my postscript.”

“Very well.  Two more minutes.”

“Merciless dragon,” said he.

She smiled and left us.

“The dearest angel, bar one, in the world.” said he.  “What were we talking about?”

“Colonel Boyce.”

“Oh, yes.  Forgive me.  My head goes FUT now and then.  It’s idiotic not to be able to control one’s brain....  The point is this.  I may peg out.  I know this operation they’re going to perform is just touch and go.  I want to face things with a clear conscience.  I’ve convinced you, haven’t I, that there wasn’t a word of truth in that South-African story?  If ever it crops up you’ll scotch it like a venomous snake?”

The ethics of my answer I leave to the casuist.  I am an old-fashioned Church of England person.  As I am so mentally constituted that I am unable to believe cheerfully in nothing.  I believe in God and Jesus Christ, and accept the details of doctrine as laid down in the Thirty-nine Articles.  For liars I have the Apocryphal condemnation.  Yet I lied without the faintest rippling qualm of conscience.

“My dear fellow,” said I, stoutly, “there’s not the remotest speck of truth in it.  You haven’t a second’s occasion to worry.”

“That’s all right,” he said.

The Sister approached again.  Instinctively I stretched out my hand.  He laughed.

“No good.  You must take it as gripped.  Goodbye, old chap.”

I bade him good-bye and Marigold wheeled me away.

A few days afterwards they told me that this gay, gallant, honourable, sensitive gentleman was dead.  Although I had known him so little, it seemed that I knew him very intimately, and I deeply mourned his loss.

I think this episode was the most striking of what I may term personal events during those autumn months.