wasn't thinking seriously of being down to breakfast in any case," he
answered with a yawn.

"Oh, don't be late. It makes so much extra work for the maids, if they
have to serve several breakfasts and can't get in to do your room."

He smothered an impatient retort and strolled to a table by the fire
where Sybil and her father were sipping long tumblers of hot milk, while
Geoff gulped home-made lemonade with avid enjoyment.

"Any whiskey?" he asked, raking the tray with critical eye. He did not
greatly want it for himself or at that moment, but every night the same
plea had to be preferred, there was the same hesitation and hint of
inward struggle, the same unspoken protest, as though the shocked
stalwarts of temperance were saying: "You can't want whiskey after
claret _and_ port." He was being made to drink for conscience sake. And
it was intolerable that Waring, Benyon and Nares should have been sent
into the night without a stirrup-cup.

"It's in the dining-room," said Sybil, walking reproachfully to the
door.

"Here! All right! I'll ring," Eric cried.

"The servants are all in bed," she answered. "Or, if they're not, they
ought to be."

He thanked her suitably on her return, but one discordant, trifling
incident coalesced with another, the tepid bath with the whiskey
demonstration, to give him a sense of angular discomfort. In a few hours
he seemed to spend a month's nervous energy in battling for things that
were not worth winning. The whole week-end would be a failure. . . .

The milk tumblers were returned to their tray; Sir Francis filled his
corn-cob for the last time; Geoff ferreted curiously among a pile of
library novels in one corner, and Lady Lane walked softly round the
room, testing the fastenings of the windows, pushing a top-heavy log
into security and turning off unnecessary lights. The hall clock,
striking eleven, seemed to rouse and inspire them with a common impulse.

"Don't burn the mid-night oil too long," said Lady Lane, brushing Eric's
forehead with her lips.

"I simply couldn't sleep, if I went to bed now," he told her.
"Good-night, mother. Good-night, everybody."

As the house grew silent he brought in his despatch-box from the hall
and began to read through the skeleton of a novel which he had promised
himself to write as soon as "The Bomb-Shell" was safely launched. In the
second week of the war he had spent an afternoon in a recruiting office
with men of all ages and physique