railings. He was within a yard of me.

"Would you let me speak to you for half a minute, Major?"

"Certainly," said I. "Come in."

He swung through the gate and crossed the lawn.

"You said very hard things to me some time ago."

"I did," said I, "and I don't think they were undeserved."

"Up to a certain point I agree with you," he replied.

He looked extraordinarily robust and athletic in his canvas kit. Why
should he be tearing about aimlessly on a motor bicycle this May
morning when he ought to be in France?

"I wish you agreed with me all along the line," said I.

He found a little iron garden seat and sat down by my side.

"I don't want to enter into controversial questions," he said.

Confound him! He might have been fifty instead of four-and-twenty.
Controversial questions! His assured young Oxford voice irritated me.

"What do you want to enter into?" I asked.

"A question of honour," he answered calmly. "I have been wanting to
speak to you, but I didn't like to. Passing you by, just now, I made a
sudden resolution. You have thought badly of me on account of my
attitude towards Phyllis Gedge. I want to tell you that you were quite
right. My attitude was illogical and absurd."

"You have discovered," said I, "that she is not the inspiration you
thought she was, and like an honest man have decided to let her alone."

"On the contrary," said he. "I'd give the eyes out of my head to marry
her."

"Why?"

He met my gaze very frankly. "For the simple reason, Major Meredyth,
that I love her."

All this natural, matter-of-fact simplicity coming from so artificial a
product of Balliol as Randall Holmes, was a bit upsetting. After a
pause, I said:

"If that is so, why don't you marry her?"

"She'll have nothing to do with me."

"Have you asked her?"

"I have, in writing. There's no mistake about it. I'm in earnest."

"I'm exceedingly glad to hear it," said I.

And I was. An honest lover I can understand, and a Don Juan I can
understand. But the tepid philanderer has always made my toes tingle.
And I was glad, too, to hear that little Phyllis Gedge had so much
dignity and commonsense. Not many small builders' daughters would have
sent packing a brilliant young gentleman like Randall Holmes,
especially if they happened to be in love with him. As I did not
particularly wish to be the confidant of this love-lorn shepherd, I
said nothing more. Randall lit a cigarette.

"I hope I'm not boring you