sport and make
other general arrangements for her journey. There was nothing for it
but her Englishwoman's courage. She held up her hand at that, and went
away to live, like many another, patiently through the long hours of
suspense.

For two or three days no news came. I spent as much time as I could
with my old friend, seeking to comfort her.

On the third morning it was announced in the papers that the King had
been graciously pleased to confer the Victoria Cross on Lt. Colonel
Leonard Boyce for conspicuous gallantry in action. It did not occur in
a list of honours. It had a special paragraph all to itself. Such
isolated announcements generally indicate immediate recognition of some
splendid feat. I was thrilled by the news. It was a grand achievement
to win through death to the greatest of all military rewards
deliberately coveted. Here, as I had strange reason for knowing, was no
sudden act of sublime valour. The final achievement was the result of
months of heroic, almost suicidal daring. And it was repayment of a
terrible debt, the whole extent of which I knew not, owed by the man to
his tormented soul.

I rang up Mrs. Boyce, who replied tremulously to my congratulations.
Would I come over and lunch?

I found a very proud and tearful old lady. She may not have known the
difference between a platoon and a howitzer, and have conceived the
woolliest notions of the nature of her son's command, but the Victoria
Cross was a matter on which her ideas were both definite and correct.
She had spent the morning at the telephone receiving calls of
congratulation. A great sheaf of telegrams had arrived. Two or three of
them were from the High and Mighty of the Military Hierarchy. She was
in such a twitter of joy that she almost forgot her anxiety as to his
wounds.

"Do you think he knows? I telegraphed to him at once."

"So did I."

She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece.

"How long would it take for a telegram to reach him?"

"You may be sure he has it by now," said I, "and it has given him a
prodigious appetite for lunch."

Her face clouded over. "That horrid tinned stuff. It's so dangerous. I
remember once Mary's aunt--or was it Cook's aunt--one of them any
way--nearly died of eating tinned lobster--ptomaine poisoning. I've
always told Leonard not to touch it.

"They don't give Colonels and V.C.s tinned lobster at Boulogne," I
answered cheerfully. "He's living now on the fat of the land."

"Let