“For Sergeant Marigold,” she said.

She opened the French window behind the drawn curtains and listened.  It was a still clear night.  Presently the clock of the Parish Church struck twelve.  She came down to the little table by my side and filled the glasses, and the three of us drank the New Year in.  Then Betty kissed me and we both shook hands with Marigold, who stood very stiff and determined and cleared his throat and swallowed something as though he were expected to make a speech.  But Betty anticipated him.  She put both her hands on his gaunt shoulders and looked up into his ugly face.

“You’ve just wished me a Happy New Year, Sergeant.”

“I have,” said he, “and I mean it.”

“Then will you let me have great happiness in staying here and helping you to look after the Major?”

He gasped for a moment (as did I) and clutched her arms for an instant in an iron grip.

“Indeed I will, my dear,” said he.

Then he stepped back a pace and stood rigid, his one eye staring, his weather-beaten face the colour of beetroot.  He was blushing.  The beads of perspiration appeared below his awful wig.  He stammered out something about “Ma’am” and “Madam.”  He had never so far forgotten himself in his life.

But Betty sprang forward and gripped his hand.

“It is you who are the dear,” she said.  “You, the greatest and loyalest friend a man has ever known.  And I’ll be loyal to you, never fear.”

By what process of enchantment she got an emotion-filled Marigold to the door and shut it behind him, I shall never discover.  On its slam she laughed—­a queer high note.  In one swift movement she was by my knees.  And she broke into a passion of tears.  For me, I was the most mystified man under heaven.

Soon she began to speak, her head bowed.

“I’ve come to the end of the tether, Majy dear.  They’ve driven me from the hospital—­I didn’t know how to tell you before—­I’ve been doing all sorts of idiotic things.  The doctors say it’s a nervous breakdown—­I’ve had rather a bad time—­but I thought it contemptible to let one’s own wretched little miseries interfere with one’s work for the country—­so I fought as hard as I could.  Indeed I did, Majy dear.  But it seems I’ve been playing the fool without knowing it,—­I haven’t slept properly for months—­and they’ve sent me away.  Oh, they’ve been all that’s kind, of course —­I must have at least six months’ rest, they say—­they talk about nursing homes—­I’ve thought and thought and thought about it until I’m certain.  There’s only one rest for me, Majy dear.”  She raised a tear-stained, tense and beautiful face and drew herself up so that one arm leaned on my chair, and the other on my shoulder.  “And that is to be with the one human being that is left for me to love—­oh, really love—­you know what I mean—­in the world.”

I could only put my hand on her fair young head and say: