Certainly his mother would never have done so when all at once the door opened and she stood before me, looking about thirty in the ample shadow of a cavalier’s hat.  Simply but admirably gowned, as I knew she would be, her slender figure looked more youthful still; yet in all this there was no intent; the dry cool smile was that of an older woman, and I was prepared for greater cordiality than I could honestly detect in the greeting of the small firm hand.  But it was kind, as indeed her whole reception of me was; only it had always been the way of Catherine the correspondent to make one expect a little more than mere kindness, and of Catherine the companion to disappoint that expectation.  Her conversation needed few exclamatory points.

“Still halt and lame,” she murmured over my sticks.  “You poor thing, you are to sit down this instant.”

And I obeyed her as one always had, merely remarking that I was getting along famously now.

“You must have had an awful time,” continued Catherine, seating herself near me, her calm wise eyes on mine.

“Blood-poisoning,” said I.  “It nearly knocked me out, but I’m glad to say it didn’t quite.”

Indeed, I had never felt quite so glad before.

“Ah! that was too hard and cruel; but I was thinking of the day itself,” explained Catherine, and paused in some sweet transparent awe of one who had been through it.

“It was a beastly day,” said I, forgetting her objection to the epithet until it was out.  But Catherine did not wince.  Her fixed eyes were full of thought.

“It was all that here,” she said.  “One depressing morning I had a telegram from Bob, ’Spion Kop taken’—­”

“So Bob,” I nodded, “had it as badly as everybody else!”

“Worse,” declared Catherine, her eye hardening; “it was all I could do to keep him at Cambridge, though he had only just gone up.  He would have given up everything and flown to the Front if I had let him.”

And she wore the inexorable face with which I could picture her standing in his way; and in Catherine I could admire that dogged look and all it spelt, because a great passion is always admirable.  The passion of Catherine’s life was her boy, the only son of his mother, and she a widow.  It had been so when he was quite small, as I remembered it with a pinch of jealousy startling as a twinge from an old wound.  More than ever must it be so now; that was as natural as the maternal embargo in which Catherine seemed almost to glory.  And yet, I reflected, if all the widows had thought only of their only sons—­and of themselves!

“The next depressing morning,” continued Catherine, happily oblivious of what was passing through one’s mind, “the first thing I saw, the first time I put my nose outside, was a great pink placard with ’Spion Kop Abandoned!’ Duncan, it was too awful.”

“I wish we’d sat tight,” I said, “I must confess.”

“Tight!” cried Catherine in dry horror.  “I should have abandoned it long before.  I should have run away—­hard!  To think that you didn’t—­that’s quite enough for me.”