ught at vague hopes of delay. "There's no hurry of course. For one
thing I don't want to lose you... And then you have your career to think
of, haven't you?" Mr. Hazlewood found himself here upon ground more solid
and leaned his weight on it. "Yes, there's your career."

Dick returned to his father, amazement upon his face. He spoke as one who
cannot believe the evidence of his ears.

"But it's in the army, father! Do you realise what you are saying? You
want me to think of my career in the British Army?"

Consistency however had no charms for Mr. Hazlewood at this moment.

"Exactly," he cried. "We don't want to prejudice that--do we? No, no,
Richard! Oh, I hear the finest things about you. And they push the young
men along nowadays. You don't have to wait for grey hairs before you're
made a General, Richard, so we must keep an eye on our prospects, eh? And
for that reason it would be advisable perhaps"--and the old man's eyes
fell from Dick's face to his papers--"yes, it would certainly be
advisable to let your engagement remain for a while just a private matter
between the three of us."

He took up his pen as though the matter was decided and discussion at an
end. But Dick did not move from his side. He was the stronger of the two
and in a little while the old man's eyes wandered up to his face again.
There was a look there which Margaret Pettifer had seen a week ago. Dick
spoke and the voice he used was strange and formidable to his father.

"There must be no secrecy, father. I remember what you said: for
uncharitable slander an English village is impossible to beat. Our secret
would be known within a week and by attempting to keep it we invite
suspicion. Nothing could be more damaging to Stella than secrecy.
Consequently nothing could be more damaging to me. I don't deny that
things are going to be a little difficult. But of this I am sure"--and
his voice, though it still was quiet, rang deep with confidence--"our one
chance is to hold our heads high. No secrecy, father! My hope is to make
a life which has been very troubled know some comfort and a little
happiness."

Mr. Hazlewood had no more to say. He must renounce his gods or hold his
tongue. And renounce his gods--no, that he could not do. He heard in
imagination the whole neighbourhood laughing--he saw it a sea of laughter
overwhelming him. He shivered as he thought of it. He, Harold Hazlewood,
the man emancipated from the fictions of society, caught lik