“On the contrary,” said he.  “I’d give the eyes out of my head to marry her.”

“Why?”

He met my gaze very frankly.  “For the simple reason, Major Meredyth, that I love her.”

All this natural, matter-of-fact simplicity coming from so artificial a product of Balliol as Randall Holmes, was a bit upsetting.  After a pause, I said: 

“If that is so, why don’t you marry her?”

“She’ll have nothing to do with me.”

“Have you asked her?”

“I have, in writing.  There’s no mistake about it.  I’m in earnest.”

“I’m exceedingly glad to hear it,” said I.

And I was.  An honest lover I can understand, and a Don Juan I can understand.  But the tepid philanderer has always made my toes tingle.  And I was glad, too, to hear that little Phyllis Gedge had so much dignity and commonsense.  Not many small builders’ daughters would have sent packing a brilliant young gentleman like Randall Holmes, especially if they happened to be in love with him.  As I did not particularly wish to be the confidant of this love-lorn shepherd, I said nothing more.  Randall lit a cigarette.

“I hope I’m not boring you,” he said.

“Not a bit.”

“Well—­what complicates the matter is that her father’s the most infernal swine unhung.”  I started, remembering what Betty had told me.

“I thought,” said I, “that you were fast friends.”

“Who told you so?” he asked.

“All the birds of Wellingsford.”

“I did go to see him now and then,” he admitted.  “I thought he was much maligned.  A man with sincere opinions, even though they’re wrong, is deserving of some respect, especially when the expression of them involves considerable courage and sacrifice.  I wanted to get to the bottom of his point of view.”

“If you used such a metaphor in the Albemarle,” I interrupted, “I’m afraid you would be sacrificed by your friends.”

He had the grace to laugh.  “You know what I mean.”

“And did you get to the bottom of it?”

“I think so.”

“And what did you find?”

“Crass ignorance and malevolent hatred of everyone better born, better educated, better off, better dressed, better spoken than himself.”

“Still,” said I, “a human being can have those disabilities and yet not deserve to be qualified as the most infernal swine unhung.”

“That’s a different matter,” said he, unbuttoning his canvas jacket, for the morning was warm.  “I can talk patiently to a fool —­to be able to do so is an elementary equipment for a life among men and women—­” Why the deuce, thought I, wasn’t he expending this precious acquirement on a platoon of agricultural recruits?  The officer who suffers such gladly has his name inscribed on the Golden Legend (unfortunately unpublished) of the British Army—­ “but when it comes,” he went on, “to low-down lying knavery, then I’m done.  I don’t know how to tackle it.  All I can do is to get out of the knave’s way.  I’ve found Gedge to be a beast, and I’m very honourably in love with Gedge’s daughter, and I’ve asked her to marry me.  I attach some value, Major, to your opinion of me, and I want you, to know these two facts.”