“I beg pardon, sir, but lately I’ve noticed that my little bits of local news haven’t seemed to be welcome.”

“Marigold,” said I, “don’t be an ass.”

“Very good, sir.”

“My mind,” said I, “is in an awful muddle about all sorts of things that are going on in this town.  So I should esteem it a favour if you would tell me at once any odds and ends of gossip you may pick up.  They may possibly be important.”

“And if I have any inferences to draw from what I hear,” said he gravely, fixing me with his clear eye, “may I take the liberty of acquainting you with them?”

“Certainly.”

“Very good, sir,” said Marigold.

Now what was Marigold going to draw inferences about?  That was another puzzle.  I felt myself being drawn into a fog-filled labyrinth of intrigue in which already groping were most of the people I knew.  What with the mysterious relations between Betty and Boyce and Gedge, what with young Dacre’s full exoneration of Boyce, what with young Randall’s split with Gedge and his impeccable attitude towards Phyllis, things were complicated enough; Sir Anthony’s revelations regarding poor Althea and his dark surmises concerning Randall complicated them still more; and now comes Mrs. Holmes to tell me of Randall’s mysterious disappearance.

“A plague on the whole lot!” I exclaimed wrathfully.

I dined that evening with the Fenimores.  My dear Betty was there too, the only other guest, looking very proud and radiant.  A letter that morning from Willie Connor informed her that the regiment, by holding a trench against an overwhelming German attack, had achieved glorious renown.  The Brigadier-General had specially congratulated the Colonel, and the Colonel had specially complimented Willie on the magnificent work of his company.  Of course there was a heavy price in casualties—­poor young Etherington, whom we all knew, for instance, blown to atoms—­but Willie, thank God! was safe.

“I wonder what would happen to me, if Willie were to get the V.C.  I think I should go mad with pride!” she exclaimed with flushed cheeks, forgetful of poor young Etherington, a laughter-loving boy of twenty, who had been blown to atoms.  It is strange how apparently callous this universal carnage has made the noblest and the tenderest of men and women.  We cling passionately to the lives of those near and dear to us.  But as to those near and dear to others, who are killed—­well—­we pay them the passing tribute not even of a tear, but only of a sign.  They died gloriously for their country.  What can we say more?  If we—­we survivors, not only invalids and women and other stay-at-homes, but also comrades on the field—­were riven to our souls by the piteous tragedy of splendid youth destroyed in its flower, we could not stand the strain, we should weep hysterically, we should be broken folk.  But a merciful Providence steps in and steels our hearts.  The loyal hearts are there beating truly; and in order that they should beat truly and stoutly, they are given this God-sent armour.