s boy with the butter? Something like that, you know. But in its
bare state it's not a pretty sight for the mother."

"It ought to have a name," said I. "The poilu calls his bayonet
Rosalie."

He looked at it darkly for a moment, before refitting the wash-leather.

"I might call it The Reminder," said he. "Good-bye." And he turned
quickly and strode out of the door.

The Reminder of what? He puzzled me. Why, in spite of all my
open-heartedness, did he still contrive to leave me with a sense of the
enigmatic?

Although he showed himself openly about the town, he held himself aloof
from social intercourse with the inhabitants. He called, I know, on
Mrs. Holmes, and on one or two others who have no place in this
chronicle. But he refused all proposals of entertainment, notably an
invitation to dinner from the Fenimores. Sir Anthony met him in the
street, upbraided him in his genial manner for neglect of his old
friends, and pressingly asked him to dine at Wellings Park. Just a few
old friends. The duties of a distinguished soldier, said he, did not
begin and end on the field. He must uplift the hearts of those who had
to stay at home. Sir Anthony had a nervous trick of rattling off many
sentences before his interlocutor could get in a word. When he had
finished, Boyce politely declined the invitation.

"And with a damned chilly, stand-offish politeness," cried Sir Anthony
furiously, when telling me about it. "Just as if I had been Perkins,
the fish-monger, asking him to meet the Prettiloves at high tea. It's
swelled head, my dear chap; that's what it is. Just swelled head. None
of us are good enough for him and his laurels. He's going to remain the
modest mossy violet of a hero blushing unseen. Oh, damn the fellow!"

I did my best to soothe my touchy and choleric friend. No soldier, said
I, likes to be made a show of. Why had he suggested a dinner party? A
few friends. Anyone in Boyce's position knew what that meant. It meant
about thirty gawking, gaping people for whom he didn't care a hang. Why
hadn't Anthony asked the Boyces to dine quietly with Edith and
himself--with me thrown in, for instance, if they wanted exotic
assistance? Let me try, I said, to fix matters up.

So the next day I called on Boyce and told him, with such tact as I
have at command, of Sir Anthony's wounded feelings.

"My dear Meredyth," said he. "I can only say to you what I tried to
explain to the irascible little man. If I accepted one i