ing after me. And this is Major Boyce."

Observe the little devil of malice that made me put Marigold first.

"Of the Rifles?"

A quick gleam of admiration showed in the boy's eyes as he saluted. No
soldier could be stationed at Wellingsford without hearing of the hero
of the neighbourhood. A great hay waggon came lumbering down the road
and pulled up, there being no room for it to pass. This put an end to
social amenities. Brown mounted his detested charger and trotted off.
Marigold transferred me to Boyce's car. Several pairs of brawny arms
righted the two-seater and Boyce and I drove off, leaving Marigold
waiting with his usual stony patience for the promised tow. On the way
Boyce talked gaily of Marigold's gallantry, of the boy's spirit, of the
idiotic way in which impossible horses were being foisted on newly
formed cavalry units. When we drew up at my front door, it occurred to
me that there was no Marigold in attendance.

"How the deuce," said I, "am I going to get out?"

Boyce laughed. "I don't think I'll drop you."

His great arms picked me up with ease. But while he was carrying me I
experienced a singular physical revolt. I loathed his grip. I loathed
the enforced personal contact. Even after he had deposited me--very
skilfully and gently--in my wheel-chair in the hall, I hated the
lingering sense of his touch. He owed his whisky and soda to the most
elementary instinct of hospitality. Besides, he was off the next day,
back to the trenches and the hell of battle, and I had to bid him
good-bye and God-speed. But when he went, I felt glad, very glad, as
though relieved of some dreadful presence. My old distrust and dislike
returned increased a thousandfold.

It was only when he got my frail body in his arms, which I realized
were twice as strong as my good Marigold's, that I felt the ghastly and
irrational revulsion. The only thing to which I can liken it, although
it seems ludicrous, is what I imagine to be the instinctive recoil of a
woman who feels on her body the touch of antipathetic hands. I know
that my malady has made me a bit supersensitive. But my vanity has
prided itself on keeping up a rugged spirit in a fool of a body, so I
hated myself for giving way to morbid sensations. All the same, I felt
that if I were alone in a burning house, and there were no one but
Leonard Boyce to save me, I should prefer incineration to rescue.

And now I will tell you why I have hesitated to give a place in th