A horrible contortion of the face and a guttural rumble indicated amusement on the part of Marigold.  I stared, very serious, having been profoundly touched.

“What are you laughing at?” I asked.

The idiot’s merriment increased in vehemence.  He said:  “You’re too funny, sir,” and just bolted, in a manner unbecoming not only to a sergeant, but even to a butler.

As I mused on this unprecedented occurrence, I made a discovery,—­ that of Sergeant Marigold’s sense of humour.  To that sense of humour my upbraidings, often, I must confess, couched in picturesque and figurative terms so as not too greatly to hurt his feelings, had made constant appeal for the past fifteen years.  Hitherto he had hidden all signs of humorous titillation behind his impassive mask.  To-night, a spark of sentiment had been the match to explode the mine of his mirth.  It was a serious position.  Here had I been wasting on him half a lifetime’s choicest objurgations.  What was I to do in the future to consolidate my authority?

I never enjoyed a fried sole and a glass of champagne more in my life.

He came in later to remove the tray, as wooden as ever.

“Mrs. Connor called a little while ago, sir.”

“Why didn’t you ask her to come in to see me?”

“Doctor’s orders, sir.”

After the sole and champagne, I felt much better.  I should have welcomed my dear Betty with delight.  That, at any rate, was my first impulsive thought.

“Confound the doctor!” I cried.  And I was going to confound Marigold, too, but I caught his steady luminous eye.  What was the use of any anathema when he would only take it away, as a dog does a bone, and enjoy it in a solitary corner?  I recovered myself.

“Well?” said I, with dignity.  “Did Mrs. Connor leave any message?”

“I was to give you her compliments, sir, and say she was sorry you were so unwell and she was shocked to hear of Colonel Boyce’s sad affliction.”

This was sheer orderly room.  Such an expression as “sad affliction” never passed Betty’s lips.  I, however, had nothing to say.  Marigold settled me for the night and left me.

When I was alone and able to consider the point, I felt a cowardly gratitude towards the doctor who had put me to bed like a sick man and forbidden access to my room.  I had been spared breaking the news to Betty.  How she received it, I did not know.  It had been impossible to question Marigold.  After all, it was a matter of no essential moment.  I consoled myself with the reflection and tried to go to sleep.  But I passed a wretched night, my head whirling with the day’s happenings.

The morning papers showed me that Boyce, wishing to spare his mother, had been wise to summon me at once.  They all published an official paragraph describing the act for which he had received his distinction, and announcing the fact of his blindness.  They also gave a brief and flattering sketch of his career.  One paper devoted to him a short leading article.  The illustrated papers published his photograph.  Boyce was on the road to becoming a popular hero.