th
anybody. What have one's legs to do with a pleasant after-dinner
conversation? Years ago I swore a great oath that I would see them
damned before they got in the way of my intelligence.

We were getting on famously. We had put both war and Wellingsford
behind us, and talked of books. I found to my dismay that this fair and
fearless high product of modernity had far less acquaintance with
Matthew Arnold than with the Evangelist of the same praenomen. She had
never heard of "The Forsaken Merman," one of the most haunting romantic
poems in the English language. I pointed to a bookcase and bade her
fetch the volume. She brought it and settled down again by my chair,
and, as a punishment of ignorance, and for the good of her soul, I
began to read aloud. She is an impressionable young person and yet one
of remarkable candour. If she had not been held by the sea-music of the
poem, she would not have kept her deep, steady brown eyes fixed on me.
I have no hesitation in repeating that we were getting on famously and
enjoying ourselves immensely. I got nearly to the end:

"... Here came a mortal, But faithless was she, And alone dwell forever
The Kings of the sea. But, children at midnight--"

The door opened wide. Topping his long stiff body, Marigold's ugly
one-eyed head appeared, and, as if he was tremendously proud of
himself, he announced:

"Major Boyce."

Boyce strode quickly past him and, suddenly aware of Betty by my side,
stopped short, like a private suddenly summoned to attention. Marigold,
unconscious of the blackest curses that had ever fallen upon him during
his long and blundering life, made a perfect and self-satisfied exit.
Betty sprang to her feet, held her tall figure very erect, and faced
the untimely visitor, her cheeks flushing deep red. For an appreciable
time, say, thirty seconds, Boyce stood stock still, looking at her from
under heavy contracted brows. Then he recovered himself, smiled, and
advanced to her with outstretched hand, But, on his movement, she had
been quick to turn and bend down in order to pick up the book that had
fallen from my fingers on the further side of my chair. So, swiftly he
wheeled to me with his handshake. It was very deft manoeuvring on both
sides.

"The faithful Marigold didn't tell me that you weren't alone,
Meredyth," he said in his cordial, charming way. "Otherwise I shouldn't
have intruded. But my dear old mother had an attack of something and
went to bed immedi