Others must have also felt the calls of the spring, for as we were driving up to the house, I caught a glimpse of the lawn and of two figures strolling in affectionate attitude.  One was that of Mrs. Boyce; the other, khaki-clad and towering above her, had his arm round her waist.  The car pulled up at the front door.  Before we had time to ring, a trim parlour-maid appeared.

“Mrs. Boyce is not at home, sir.”

Marigold, who, when my convenience was in question, swept away social conventions like cobwebs, fixed her with his one eye, and before I could interfere, said: 

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.  I’ve just seen Major Boyce and Madam on the lawn.”

The maid reddened and looked at me appealingly.

“My orders were to say not at home, sir.”

“I quite understand, Mary,” said I.  “Major Boyce is home on short leave, and they don’t want to be disturbed.  Isn’t that it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Marigold,” said I.  “Right about turn.”

Marigold, who had stopped the car, got out unwillingly and went to the starting-handle.  That I should be refused admittance to a house which I had deigned to honour with my presence he regarded as an intolerable insult.  He also loved to have tea, as a pampered guest, in other folks’ houses.  When he got home Mrs. Marigold, as like as not, would give him plain slabs of bread buttered by her economical self.  I knew my Marigold.  He gave a vicious and ineffectual turn or two and then stuck his head in the bonnet.

The situation was saved by the appearance from the garden of Mrs. Boyce herself, a handsome, erect, elegantly dressed old lady in the late sixties, pink and white like a Dresden figure and in her usual condition of resplendent health.  She held out her hand.

“I couldn’t let you go without telling you that Leonard is back.  I don’t want the whole town to know.  If it did, I should see nothing of him, his leave is so short.  That’s why I told Mary to say ’not at home.’  But an old friend like you—­Would you like to see him?”

Marigold closed the bonnet and stood up with a grimace which passed for a happy smile.

“I should, of course,” said I, politely.  “But I quite understand.  You have everything to say to each other.  No.  I won’t stay” —­Marigold’s smile faded into woodenness—­“I only turned in idly to see how you were getting on.  But just tell me.  How is Leonard?  Fit, I hope?”

“He’s wonderful,” she said.

I motioned Marigold to start the car.

“Give him my kind regards,” said I.  “No, indeed.  He doesn’t want to see an old crock like me.”  The engine rattled.  “I hope he’s pleased at finding his mother looking so bonny.”

“It’s only excitement at having Leonard,” she explained earnestly.  “In reality I’m far from well.  But I wouldn’t tell him for worlds.”

“What’s that you wouldn’t tell, mother?” cried a soft, cheery voice, and Leonard, the fine flower of English soldiery, turned the corner of the house.