“I’ll tell you about it, sir, if you’re interested.  But first—­how is my mother?”

“Your mother?  You haven’t seen her yet?”

Here, at least, was a bit of the old casual Randall.  He shook his head.

“I’ve only just this minute arrived.  Left the trenches yesterday.  Walked from the station.  Not a soul recognised me.  I thought I had better come here first and report, just as I was, and not wait until I had washed and shaved and put on Christian clothes again.  “He looked at me and grinned.  “Seeing is believing.”

“Your mother is quite well,” said I.  “Haven’t you given her any warning of your arrival?”

“Oh, no!” he answered.  “I didn’t want any brass bands.  Besides, as I say, I wanted to see you first.  Then to look in at the hospital.  I suppose Phyllis Gedge is still at the hospital?”

“She is.  But I think, my dear chap, your mother has the first call on you.”

“She wouldn’t enjoy my present abominable appearance as much as Phyllis,” he replied, coolly.  “You see, Phyllis is responsible for it.  I told you she refused to marry me, didn’t I, sir?  After that, she called me a coward.  I had to show her that I wasn’t one.  It was an awful nuisance, I admit, for I had intended to do something quite different.  Oh! not Gedging or anything of that sort—­but—­” he dived beneath his sheepskin and brought out a tattered letter case and from a mass of greasy documents (shades of superior Oxford!) selected a dirty, ragged bit of newspaper—­“but,” said he, handing me the fragment, “I think I’ve succeeded.  I don’t suppose this caught your eye, but if you look closely into it, you’ll see that 11003 Private R. Holmes, 1st Gordon Highlanders, a couple of months ago was awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal.  I may be any kind of a fool or knave she likes to call me, but she can’t call me a coward.”

I congratulated him with all my heart, which, after the first shock, was warming towards him rapidly.

“But why,” I asked, still somewhat bewildered, “didn’t you apply for a commission?  A year ago you could have got one easily.  Why enlist?  And the 1st Gordons—­that’s the regular army.”

He laughed and asked permission to help himself to a cigarette.  “By George, that’s good,” he exclaimed after a few puffs.  “That’s good after months of Woodbines.  I found I could stand everything except Tommy’s cigarettes.  Everything about me has got as hard as nails, except my palate for tobacco ....  Why didn’t I apply for a commission?  Any fool could get a commission.  It’s different now.  Men are picked and must have seen active service, and then they’re sent off to cadet training corps.  But last year I could have got one easily.  And I might have been kicking my heels about England now.”

“Yet, at the sight of a Sam Browne belt, Phyllis would have surely recanted,” said I.