After dinner she sat on the floor by my side and smoked cigarettes in great content.  She had done a hard day’s work at the hospital; her husband had done a hard day’s work—­probably was still doing it—­in Flanders.  Both deserved well of their country and their consciences.  She was giving a poor lonely paralytic, who had given his legs years ago to the aforesaid country, a delightful evening. ...  No, I’m quite sure such a patronising thought never entered my Betty’s head.  After all, my upper half is sound, and I can talk sense or nonsense with anybody.  What have one’s legs to do with a pleasant after-dinner conversation?  Years ago I swore a great oath that I would see them damned before they got in the way of my intelligence.

We were getting on famously.  We had put both war and Wellingsford behind us, and talked of books.  I found to my dismay that this fair and fearless high product of modernity had far less acquaintance with Matthew Arnold than with the Evangelist of the same praenomen.  She had never heard of “The Forsaken Merman,” one of the most haunting romantic poems in the English language.  I pointed to a bookcase and bade her fetch the volume.  She brought it and settled down again by my chair, and, as a punishment of ignorance, and for the good of her soul, I began to read aloud.  She is an impressionable young person and yet one of remarkable candour.  If she had not been held by the sea-music of the poem, she would not have kept her deep, steady brown eyes fixed on me.  I have no hesitation in repeating that we were getting on famously and enjoying ourselves immensely.  I got nearly to the end: 

“...  Here came a mortal, But faithless was she, And alone dwell forever The Kings of the sea.  But, children at midnight—­”

The door opened wide.  Topping his long stiff body, Marigold’s ugly one-eyed head appeared, and, as if he was tremendously proud of himself, he announced: 

“Major Boyce.”

Boyce strode quickly past him and, suddenly aware of Betty by my side, stopped short, like a private suddenly summoned to attention.  Marigold, unconscious of the blackest curses that had ever fallen upon him during his long and blundering life, made a perfect and self-satisfied exit.  Betty sprang to her feet, held her tall figure very erect, and faced the untimely visitor, her cheeks flushing deep red.  For an appreciable time, say, thirty seconds, Boyce stood stock still, looking at her from under heavy contracted brows.  Then he recovered himself, smiled, and advanced to her with outstretched hand, But, on his movement, she had been quick to turn and bend down in order to pick up the book that had fallen from my fingers on the further side of my chair.  So, swiftly he wheeled to me with his handshake.  It was very deft manoeuvring on both sides.

“The faithful Marigold didn’t tell me that you weren’t alone, Meredyth,” he said in his cordial, charming way.  “Otherwise I shouldn’t have intruded.  But my dear old mother had an attack of something and went to bed immediately after dinner, and I thought I’d come round and have a smoke and a drink in your company.”