creepers and ivy, the little clock-tower over stables now converted to
a garage, the dovecote, masking at the other end the conservatory
which adjoined the billiard-room. Close to the red-brick lodge his two
children, Kate and Harry, ran out from under the acacia trees, and waved
to him, scrambling bare-legged on to the low, red, ivy-covered wall
which guarded his domain of eleven acres. Mr. Bosengate waved back,
thinking: 'Jolly couple--by Jove, they are!' Above their heads, through
the trees, he could see right away to some Downs, faint in the July heat
haze. And he thought: 'Pretty a spot as one could have got, so close to
Town!'

Despite the war he had enjoyed these last two years more than any of
the ten since he built "Charmleigh" and settled down to semi-rural
domesticity with his young wife. There had been a certain piquancy, a
savour added to existence, by the country's peril, and all the public
service and sacrifice it demanded. His chauffeur was gone, and one
gardener did the work of three. He enjoyed-positively enjoyed, his
committee work; even the serious decline of business and increase of
taxation had not much worried one continually conscious of the national
crisis and his own part therein. The country had wanted waking up,
wanted a lesson in effort and economy; and the feeling that he had not
spared himself in these strenuous times, had given a zest to those quiet
pleasures of bed and board which, at his age, even the most patriotic
could retain with a good conscience. He had denied himself many
things--new clothes, presents for Kathleen and the children, travel, and
that pine-apple house which he had been on the point of building when
the war broke out; new wine, too, and cigars, and membership of the
two Clubs which he had never used in the old days. The hours had seemed
fuller and longer, sleep better earned--wonderful, the things one could
do without when put to it! He turned the car into the high road, driving
dreamily for he was in plenty of time. The war was going pretty well
now; he was no fool optimist, but now that conscription was in force,
one might reasonably hope for its end within a year. Then there would be
a boom, and one might let oneself go a little. Visions of theatres and
supper with his wife at the Savoy afterwards, and cosy night drives
back into the sweet-smelling country behind your own chauffeur once
more teased a fancy which even now did not soar beyond the confines of
domesti