it.  In spite of his contradictory nature, he did not seem to be the sort of man who would go mad.  He could exercise over himself too reasoned a control.  Yet here were passions and despairs seething without an outlet.  What would be the end?  It is true that he had achieved glory.  To the end of his life, wherever he went, he would command the honour and admiration of men.  Greater achievement is granted to few mortals.  In our little town he would be the Great Hero.  But would all that human sympathy and veneration could contrive keep the Furies at bay and soothe the tormented spirit?

I tried to eat a meal at the club, but the food choked me.  I got into the car as soon as possible and reached Wellingsford with head and heart racked with pain.  But before I could go home I had to execute Boyce’s mission.

If I accomplished it successfully, my heart and not my wearied mind deserves the credit.  At first Mrs. Boyce broke down under the shock of the news, for all the preparation in the world can do little to soften a deadly blow; but breed and pride soon asserted themselves, and she faced things bravely.  With charming dignity she received Marigold’s few respectful words of condolence.  And she thanked me for what I had done, beyond my deserts.  To show how brave she was, she insisted on accompanying us downstairs and on standing in the bleak evening air while Marigold put me in the car.

“After all, I have my son alive and in good strong health.  I must realise how merciful God has been to me.”  She put her hand into mine.  “I shan’t see you again till I bring him home with me.  I shall go up to London early to-morrow morning and stay with my old friend Lady Fanshawe—­I think you have met her here—­the widow of the late Admiral Fanshawe.  She has a house in Eccleston Street, which is, I think, in the neighbourhood of Belton Square.  If I haven’t thanked you enough, dear Major Meredyth, it is that, when one’s heart is full, one can’t do everything all at once.”

She waved to me very graciously as the car drove off—­a true “Spartian” mother, dear lady, of our modern England.

Oh! the humiliation of possessing a frail body and a lot of disorganized nerves!  When I got home Marigold, seeing that I was overtired, was all for putting me to bed then and there.  I spurned the insulting proposal in language plain enough even to his wooden understanding.  Sometimes his imperturbability exasperated me.  I might just as well try to taunt a poker or sting a fire-shovel into resentment of personal abuse.

“I’ll see you hanged, drawn, and quartered before I’ll go to bed,” I declared.

“Very good, sir.”  The gaunt wretch was carrying me.  “But I think you might lie down for half an hour before dinner.”

He deposited me ignominiously on the bed and left the room.  In about ten minutes Dr. Cliffe, my inveterate adversary who has kept life in me for many a year, came in with his confounded pink smiling face.