like her guests.

The conversation was mainly about the war: the Allies' plans and hopes
and fears. Several of the young men from London gave their views with
great authority, criticising campaigns and condemning generals. Phil
Heredith listened to this group without speaking. Two country gentlemen
in the vicinity also listened in silence. They were amazed to hear such
famous military names, whom they had been led by their favourite
newspapers to regard as the hope of the country's salvation, criticised
so unmercifully by youngsters.

"And do you think the war will soon be over, Mr. Brimley?" said a
feminine voice, rather loudly, during a lull in the conversation. The
speaker was a near neighbour and friend of Miss Heredith's, Mrs. Spicer,
who was not a member of the house party, but had been invited to dinner
that night and was going to the Weynes' afterwards. She was stout and
fresh-faced, and looked thoroughly good-natured and kind-hearted.

She addressed her question to a tall young man with prematurely grey
hair, prominent eyes, and a crooked nose. His name was Brimley, and he
was well-known in London journalism. His portrait occasionally appeared
in the picture papers as "one of the young lions of Fleet Street," but
his enemies preferred to describe him as one of Lord Butterworth's
jackals--Lord Butterworth being the millionaire proprietor of an
influential group of newspapers which, during the war, had stood for
"the last drop of blood and the last shilling" rallying cry. As one of
the foremost of this group of patriots, Mr. Brimley had let his ink flow
so freely in the Allies' cause that it was whispered amongst those "in
the know" that he was certain for a knighthood, or at least an Empire
Order, in the next list of honours.

Mr. Brimley looked at the speaker haughtily, and made an inaudible
reply. Although he was a lion of Fleet Street, he did not relish being
called upon to roar in the wilds of Sussex.

"Won't the poor German people be delighted when our troops march across
the Rhine to deliver them from militarism," continued the old lady
innocently.

There was a subdued titter from the younger girls at this, and a young
officer sitting near the bottom of the table laughed aloud, then flushed
suddenly at his breach of manners.

"Have I said something foolish?" asked the old lady placidly. "Please
tell me if I have--I don't mind."

"Not at all," said another young officer, with a beardless sunburnt