wife, sanctified by suffering and ennobled by the
consciousness of duty done. It would be splendid!"

For the first time since the black day there came a gleam of fun into
Betty's eyes and a touch of colour into her cheeks.

"It would indeed," said I. "The only question is whether Tufton would
really like this Red Cross Saint you'll have provided for him."

"In case he does not," said Betty, "you can provide him with a refuge
as you are doing now."

She rose from the table, announcing her intention of going straight to
the hospital. I realised with a pang that breakfast was over; that I
had enjoyed a delectable meal; that, by some sort of dainty miracle,
she had bemused me into eating and drinking twice my ordinary ration;
that she had inveigled me into talking--a thing I have never done
during breakfast for years--it is as much as Marigold's ugly head is
worth to address a remark to me during the unsympathetic duty--why, if
my poached egg regards me with too aggressive a pinkiness, I want to
slap it--and into talking about those confounded Tuftons with a gusto
only provoked by a glass or two of impeccable port after a good dinner.
One would have thought, considering the anguished scene of the night
before, that it would have been one of the most miserably impossible
tete-a-tete breakfasts in the whole range of such notoriously ghastly
meals. But here was Betty, serene and smiling, as though she had been
accustomed to breakfast with me every morning of her life, off to the
hospital, with a hard little idea in her humorous head concerning Mrs.
Tufton's conversion.

The only sign she gave of last night's storm was when, by way of
good-bye, she bent down and kissed my cheek.

"You know," she said, "I love you too much to thank you."

And she went off with her brave little head in the air.

In the afternoon I went to Wellings Park. Sir Anthony was away, but
Lady Fenimore was in. She showed me a letter she had received from
Betty in reply to her letter of condolence:

"My dears,

"It is good to realise one has such rocks to lean on. You long to help
and comfort me. Well, I'll tell you how to do it. You just forget.
Leave it to me to do all the remembering.

"Yours, Betty."

CHAPTER XIV

On the first of July there was forwarded to me from the club a letter
in an unknown handwriting. I had to turn to the signature to discover
the identity of my correspondent. It was Reggie Dacre, Colonel Dacre,
whom I