er, had nothing to say. Marigold
settled me for the night and left me.

When I was alone and able to consider the point, I felt a cowardly
gratitude towards the doctor who had put me to bed like a sick man and
forbidden access to my room. I had been spared breaking the news to
Betty. How she received it, I did not know. It had been impossible to
question Marigold. After all, it was a matter of no essential moment. I
consoled myself with the reflection and tried to go to sleep. But I
passed a wretched night, my head whirling with the day's happenings.

The morning papers showed me that Boyce, wishing to spare his mother,
had been wise to summon me at once. They all published an official
paragraph describing the act for which he had received his distinction,
and announcing the fact of his blindness. They also gave a brief and
flattering sketch of his career. One paper devoted to him a short
leading article. The illustrated papers published his photograph. Boyce
was on the road to becoming a popular hero.

Cliffe kept me in bed all that day, to my great irritation. I had no
converse with the outside world, save vicariously with Betty, who rang
up to enquire after my health. On the following morning, when I drove
abroad with Hosea, I found the whole town ringing with Boyce. It was a
Friday, the day of publication of the local newspaper. It had run to
extravagant bills all over the place:

"Wellingsford Hero honoured by the King. Tragic End to Glorious Deeds."

The word--Marigold's, I suppose--had gone round that I had visited the
hero in London. I was stopped half a dozen times on my way up the High
Street by folks eager for personal details. Outside Prettilove the
hairdresser's I held quite a little reception, and instead of moving me
on for blocking the traffic, as any of his London colleagues would have
done, the local police sergeant sank his authority and by the side of a
butcher's boy formed part of the assembly.

When I got to the Market Square, I saw Sir Anthony Fenimore's car
standing outside the Town Hall. The chauffeur stopped me.

"Sir Anthony was going to call on you, sir, as soon as he had finished
his business inside."

"I'll wait for him," said I. It was one of the few mild days of a
wretched month and I enjoyed the air. Springfield, the house agent,
passed and engaged me in conversation on the absorbing topic, and then
the manager of the gasworks joined us. Everyone listened so reverently
to my utt