t a
murmur; sticking it always, merry, cheerful, bright--so that the glory
of the British soldier should be written on the scroll of the immortals
for all eternity.

Was it all to be wasted, thrown away? His jaw set at the thought.
Surely--surely that could never be. Let 'em have their League of
Nations by all manner of means; but a League of Britain was what these
men were fighting for. And to every Britisher who is a Britisher--may
God be praised there are millions for whom patriotism has a real
meaning--that second League is the only one that counts.

The door opened and Vallance, the Adjutant, came in. "There's a letter
for you, old boy, outside in the rack," he remarked. He walked over to
the fire to warm his hands. "Bring me a large whisky and a small
soda," he said to the waiter, who answered his ring. "Drink, Vane?"

Vane looked up from the envelope he was holding in his hand and shook
his head. "No, thanks, old man," he answered. "Not just now. . . . I
think I'll read this letter first." And the Adjutant, who was by
nature an unimaginative man, failed to notice that Vane's voice was
shaking a little with suppressed excitement.

It was ten minutes before either of them spoke again. Twice Vane had
read the letter through, and then he folded it carefully and put it in
his pocket.

"Contrary to all service etiquette, old boy," he said, "I am going to
approach you on the subject of leave in the mess. I want two or three
days. Can it be done?"

Vallance put down his paper, and looked at him.

"Urgent private affairs?" he asked lightly.

"Very urgent," returned Vane grimly.

"I should think it might be managed," he said. "Fire in an application
and I'll put it up to-morrow."

"Thanks," said Vane briefly, "I will."

For a moment or two after he had left the room Vallance looked at the
closed door. Then he picked the envelope out of the grate, and studied
the handwriting.

"Confound these women," he muttered, and consigned it to the flames.
He liked to think himself a misogynist, and, incidentally, thoughts of
drafts were worrying him.

Up in his own room Vane was poking the fire. His face was stern, and
with care and deliberation he pulled up the arm chair to the blaze.
Then he took the letter out of this pocket, and proceeded to read it
through once again.

MELTON HOUSE,
OFFHAM, NEAR LEWES.

MY DEAR,--It's just on midnight, but I feel in the mood for doing what
I've been shir