After a speech or two more, to which I did not listen, the proceedings in the Town Hall ended.  I drew a breath of relief.  No breakdown by Sir Anthony, no scandalous interruption by Gedge, had marred the impressive ceremony.  The band in the gallery played “God Save the King.”  The crowd in the body of the hall, who had stood for the anthem, sat down again, evidently waiting for Boyce and the notables to pass out.  The assemblage on the platform broke up.  Several members, among them the General, who paused to shake hands with Boyce and his mother, left the hall by the private side door.  The Lord Lieutenant and Lady Laleham followed him soon afterwards.  Then the less magnificent crowded round Boyce, each eager for a personal exchange of words with the hero.  Sir Anthony remained at his post, keeping on the outskirts of the throng, bidding formal adieux to those who went away.  Presently I saw that Boyce was asking for me, for someone pointed me out to his officer attendant, who led him down the steps of the platform and round the edge to my seat.

“Well, it has gone off all right,” said he.  “Let me introduce Captain Winslow, more than ever my right-hand man—­Major Meredyth.”

We exchanged bows.

“The old mother’s as pleased as Punch.  She didn’t know she was going to get a little box of her own.  I should like to have seen her face.  I did hear her give one of her little squeals.  Did you?”

“No,” said I, “but I saw her face.  It was that of a saint in an unexpected beatitude.”

He laughed.  “Dear old mother,” said he.  “She has deserved a show.”  He turned away unconsciously, and, thinking to address me, addressed the first row of spectators.  “I suppose there’s a lot of folks here that I know.”

By chance he seemed to be looking through his black glasses straight at Betty a few feet away.  She rose impulsively and, before all Wellingsford, went up to him with hand outstretched.

“There’s one at any rate, Colonel Boyce.  I’m Betty Connor—­”

“No need to tell me that,” said he, bowing.

Winslow, at his elbow, most scrupulous of prompters, whispered: 

“She wants to shake hands with you.”

So their hands met.  He kept hers an appreciable second or two in his grasp.

“I hope you will accept my congratulations,” said Betty.

“I have already accepted them, very gratefully.  My mother conveyed them to me.  She was deeply touched by your letter.  And may I, too, say how deeply touched I am by your coming here?”

Betty looked swiftly round and her cheeks flushed, for there were many of us within earshot.  She laughed off her embarrassment.

“You have developed from a man into a Wellingsford Institution, and I had to come and see you inaugurated.  My aunts, too, are here.”  She beckoned to them.  “They are shyer than I am.”