d him to the house."

I told Sir Anthony of my interview with the young man. He waxed wroth.
In a country with a backbone every Randall Holmes in the land would
have been chucked willy-nilly into the army. But the country had spinal
disorders. It had locomotor ataxy. The result of sloth and
self-indulgence. We had the Government we deserved ... I need not quote
further. You can imagine a fine old fox-hunting Tory gentleman, with
England filling all the spaces of his soul, blowing off the steam of
his indignation.

When he had ended, "What," said I, "is to be done?"

"I'll lay my horsewhip across the young beggar's shoulders the next
time I meet him."

"Capital," said I. "If I were you I should never ride abroad except in
my mayor's gown and chain, so that you can give an official character
to the thrashing."

He glanced swiftly at me in his bird-like fashion, his brow creased
into a thousand tiny horizontal lines--it always took him a fraction of
a second to get clear of the literal significance of words--and then he
laughed. Personal violence was out of the question. Why, the young
beggar might summon him for assault. No; he had a better idea. He would
put in a word at the proper quarter, so that every recruiting sergeant
in the district should have orders to stop him at every opportunity.

"I shouldn't do that," said I.

"Then, I don't know what the deuce I can do," said Sir Anthony.

As I didn't know, either, our colloquy was fruitless. Eventually Sir
Anthony said:

"Perhaps it's likely, after all, that Gedge may offend young Oxford's
fastidiousness. It can't be long before he discovers Gedge to be
nothing but a vulgar, blatant wind-bag; and then he may undergo some
reaction."

I agreed. It seemed to be the most sensible thing he had said. Give
Gedge enough rope and he would hang himself. So we parted.

I have said before that when I want to shew how independent I am of
everybody I drive abroad in my donkey carriage. But there are times
when I have to be dependent on Marigold for carrying me into the houses
I enter; on these helpless occasions I am driven about by Marigold in a
little two-seater car. That is how I visited Wellings Park and that is
how I set off a day or two later to call on Mrs. Boyce.

As she took little interest in anything foreign to her own inside, she
was not to most people an exhilarating companion. She even discussed
the war in terms of her digestion. But we were old friends. Be