“That’s nonsense,” she said, bridling.

“Why?”

“Because—­”

A gesture and a smile completed the sentence.  That a common young person should decline to have dealings with her paragon was incredible.

“I can find out in a minute,” I smiled, “whether she is still in Wellingsford.”

I wheeled myself to the telephone on my writing-table and rang up Betty at the hospital.

“Do you know where Phyllis Gedge is?”

Betty’s voice came.  “Yes.  She’s here.  I’ve just left her to come to speak to you.  Why do you want to know?”

“Never mind so long as she is safe and sound.  There’s no likelihood of her running away or eloping?”

Betty’s laughter rang over the wires.  “What lunacy are you talking?  You might as well ask me whether I’m going to elope with you.”

“I don’t think you’re respectful, Betty,” I replied.  “Good-bye.”

I rang off and reported Betty’s side of the conversation to my visitor.

“On that score,” said I, “you can make your mind quite easy.”

“But where can the boy have gone?” she cried.

“Into the world somewhere to learn wisdom,” I said, and in order to show that I did not speak ironically, I wheeled myself to her side and touched her hand.  “I think his swift brain has realised at last that all his smart knowledge hasn’t brought him a little bit of wisdom worth a cent.  I shouldn’t worry.  He’s working out his salvation somehow, although he may not know it.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I do,” said I.  “And if he finds that the path of wisdom leads to the German trenches—­will you be glad or sorry?”

She grappled with the question in silence for a moment or two.  Then she broke down and, to my dismay, began to cry.

“Do you suppose there’s a woman in England that, in her heart of hearts, doesn’t want her men folk to fight?”

I only allow the earlier part of this chapter to stand in order to show how a man quite well-meaning, although a trifle irascible, may be wanting in Christian charity and ordinary understanding; and of how many tangled knots of human motive, impulse, and emotion this war is a solvent.  You see, she defended her son to the last, adopting his own specious line of argument; but at the last came the breaking-point. ...

The rest of our interview was of no great matter.  I did my best to reassure and comfort her; and when I next saw Marigold, I said affably: 

“You did quite well to wake me.”

“I thought I was acting rightly, sir.  Mr. Randall having bolted, so to speak, it seemed only natural that Mrs. Holmes should come to see you.”

“You knew that Mr. Randall had bolted and you never told me?”

I glared indignantly.  Marigold stiffened himself—­the degree of stiffness beyond his ordinary inflexibility of attitude could only have been ascertained by a vernier, but that degree imparted an appreciable dignity to his demeanour.