my desk was. The wonderful packet, which must be given into my
hand by his, contained three beautiful new potatoes, the size of
marbles, out of the Carstairs' kitchen garden! I bit back a giggle, hid
the rare jewels in a drawer, and scribbled any nonsense I could think of
to Dame Caroline, till I heard tea coming. Then I went back to my guest.
I gave him tea, and other things. There were late strawberries, and some
Devonshire cream, which had arrived by post that morning, anonymously.
Sir James Courtenaye, that red-haired cowboy to whom I'd let the
ancestral Abbey, was in Devonshire. But there was no reason why he
should send me cream, or anything else. Still, there it was. Captain
Burns, it appeared, had never happened to taste the Devonshire variety.
He liked it. And when he had disposed of a certain amount (during which
time we hardly spoke), I offered him my cigarette case.

For a few moments we both smoked in silence. Then I said, "I'm
disappointed in you."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you haven't looped any loops through your nose."

He actually laughed! He looked delightful when he laughed.

"I was trying something of the sort one day, and failing," I explained.
"Mrs. Carstairs said she had a friend who could do it, and his name was
Terence Burns."

"I've almost forgotten that old stunt," he smiled indulgently. "Think of
Mrs. Carstairs remembering it! Why, I haven't had time to remember it
myself, much less try it out, since I was young."

"That _is_ a long time ago!" I ventured, smoking hard.

"You see," he explained quite gravely, smoking harder, "I went into the
war in 1915. It wasn't _our_ war then, for I'm an American, you know.
But I had a sort of feeling it ought to be everybody's war. And besides,
I'd fallen out of love with life about that time. War doesn't leave a
man feeling very young, whether or not he's gone through what I have."

"I know," said I. "Even we women don't feel as young as we hope we look.
I'm twenty-one and a half, and feel forty."

"I'm twenty-seven, and feel ninety-nine," he capped me.

"Shell shock is--the _devil_!" I sympathized. "But men get over it. I
know lots who have." I took another cigarette and pushed the case toward
him.

"Perhaps they wanted to get over it. I don't want to, particularly,
because life has rather lost interest for me, since I was about
twenty-two; I'm afraid that was one reason I volunteered. Not very
brave! I don't care now whether I live or