“Perhaps he has dribbled away too?” I suggested grimly.  She was silent.  I bent forward.  “Wouldn’t you like him to dribble into the great flood?”

She lifted her lean shoulders despairingly.

“He’s the only son of a widow.  Even in France and Germany they’re not expected to fight.  But if he were different I would let him go gladly—­I’m not selfish and unpatriotic, Major,” she said with an unaccustomed little catch in her throat—­and for the very first time I found in her something sympathetic—­“but,” she continued, “it seems so foolish to sacrifice all his intellectual brilliance to such crudities as fighting, when it might be employed so much more advantageously elsewhere.”

“But, good God, my dear lady!” I cried.  “Where are your wits?  Where’s your education?  Where’s your intelligent understanding of the daily papers?  Where’s your commonsense?”—­I’m afraid I was brutally rude.  “Can’t you give a minute’s thought to the situation?  If there’s one institution on earth that’s shrieking aloud for intellectual brilliance, it’s the British Army!  Do you think it’s a refuge for fools?  Do you think any born imbecile is good enough to outwit the German Headquarters Staff?  Do you think the lives of hundreds of his men—­and perhaps the fate of thousands—­can be entrusted to any brainless ass?  An officer can’t have too much brains.  We’re clamouring for brains.  It’s the healthy, brilliant-brained men like Randall that the Army’s yelling for—­simply yelling for,” I repeated, bringing my hand down on the arm of my chair.

Two little red spots showed on each side of her thin face.

“I’ve never looked at it in that light before,” she admitted.

“Of course I agree with you,” I said diplomatically, “that Randall would be more or less wasted as a private soldier.  The heroic stuff of which Thomas Atkins is made is, thank God, illimitable.  But intellect is rare—­especially in the ranks of God’s own chosen, the British officer.  And Randall is of the kind we want as officers.  As for a commission, he could get one any day.  I could get one for him myself.  I still have a few friends.  He’s a good-looking chap and would carry off a uniform.  Wouldn’t you be proud to see him?”

A tear rolled down her cheek.  I patted myself on the back for an artful fellow.  But I had underrated her wit.  To my chagrin she did not fall into my trap.

“It’s the uncertainty that’s killing me,” she said.  And then she burst out disconcertingly:  “Do you think he has gone off with that dreadful little Gedge girl?”

Phyllis!  I was a myriad miles from Phyllis.  I was talking about real things.  The mother, however, from her point of view, was talking of real things also.  But how did she come to know about her son’s amours?  I thought it useless to enquire.  Randall must have advertised his passion pretty widely.  I replied: 

“It’s extremely improbable.  In the first place Phyllis Gedge isn’t dreadful, but a remarkably sweet and modest young woman, and in the second place she won’t have anything to do with him.”