“And he is so thin and unhappy looking, Ormonde, and his poor hands are in such a state and his beautiful hair is all hacked about and done like a soldier’s, all short except for a long piece brushed down his forehead and round to his cap—­oh, dreadful ... and he has a scar on his face!  No wonder Amelia never recognized him.  Oh, do help me, Ormonde.  I must find out how to address him.  I dare not let them know there is a D. de Warrenne in the regiment—­and he’d never get it either—­he’s probably Smith or Jones or Robinson now.  If some horrid Sergeant called out ’Trooper D. de Warrenne,’ when distributing letters, Dam would never answer to the name he thinks he has eternally disgraced, and disgrace it further by dragging it in the mire of the ranks.  How can people be such snobs?  Isn’t a good private a better man than a bad officer?  Why should there be any ‘taint’ about serving your country in any capacity?

“How can I find him, Ormonde, unless you help me?  I could pay a servant to hang about the barracks until he recognized Dam—­but that would be horrible for the poor boy.  He’d deny it and say the man was mad, I expect—­and it would be most unpleasant and unfair to Dam to set some one to find out from his comrades what he calls himself.  If he chooses to hide from what he thinks is the chance of further disgracing his people, and suffers what he does in order to remain hidden, shall I be the one to do anything to show him up and cause him worse suffering—­expose him to a servant?

“How can I get him a letter that shall not have his name on it?  If I wrote to his Colonel or the Adjutant and enclosed a letter with just ‘Dam’ on it they’d not know for whom it was meant—­and I dare not tell them his real name.

“Could you get a letter to him, Ormonde, without letting him know that you know he is a private soldier, and without letting a soul know his real name?

“I do apologize for the length of this interminable letter, but if you only knew the relief it is to me to be doing something that may help him, and to be talking, or rather writing about him, you would forgive me.

  “His name must not be mentioned here.  Think
  of it!

  “Oh, if it only would not make him more unhappy,
  I would go to him this minute, and refuse ever to
  leave him again.

“Does that sound unmaidenly, Ormonde?  I don’t care whether it does or not, nor whether it is or not.  I love him, and he loves me.  I am his friend.  Could I stay here in luxury if it would make him happier to marry me?  Am I a terribly abandoned female?  I told Auntie Yvette just what I had done, and though it simply saved her life to know he had not committed suicide (I believe she worshipped father)—­she