whom he took for granted thankfully, and Mary
had long known that her mother was one of those few. Lately she had
realised with a startled thrill of gratification that she, too, had
stepped out of the rank and file to take her place among those chosen
ones, for Reggie had confided to her a secret that none of the others,
not even her mother, knew.

Among the many serious periodicals of strictly Imperial tone that Mr
Ffolliot read, was one that from time to time indulged its readers with
exceptionally well-written short stories. Quite recently a couple of
these stories had dealt with military subjects, and were signed
"Ubique." The stories were striking, strong, and evidently from the
pen of one who knew his ground. Mr Ffolliot admired them, and
graciously drew the attention of his family to them. One had appeared
in the January number, and Mrs Ffolliot and Mary fell foul of it
because it was too painful. They thought it pitiless, even savage, in
its inexorable disregard of the individual and deification of the
Cause. Grantly, of course, upheld the writer. The male of the species
prides itself on inhumanity in youth. Mr Ffolliot approved the story
from the artistic standpoint, and the General defended it on the score
of its absolute truth. Reggie, quite contrary to custom, gave no
opinion at all till he was asked by Mary, one day when they were riding
together.

As she expected, he defended the writer's stern realism. But what she
did not expect was that he seemed to make a personal matter of it,
almost imploring her to see eye to eye with him, which she wholly
failed to do.

"I think he must be a terribly hard man, that 'Ubique,'" she said at
last, "with no toleration or compassion. He talks as though
incompetence were an unpardonable crime."

"So it is; if you undertake a job you ought to see that you're fit to
carry it out."

"You can't always be sure. . . . You may do your best and . . . fail."

"I grant you some people's best is a very poor best, but in this case
the man let a flabby humanitarianism take the place of his judgment,
and he caused far more misery in the end. Can't you see that?"

"All the same," Mary said decidedly, "I wouldn't like to fall into the
hands of that man, the Ubique man I mean, not the failure. He must be
a cold-blooded wretch, or he couldn't write such things. It makes me
shudder."

And Mary shivered as she spoke.

"He must be a beast," she added.

They were