of him.  The children, with nurse, were in the dining-room, waiting to breakfast with father.  They were washed, they were dressed; the dining-room had been cleaned; the pleasant smell of breakfast-cooking wandered through the rooms; since the early talk between George and Lois in the silent, sleeping house the house had gradually come to life; it was now in full being—­even to the girl scrubbing the front steps—­except that Lois was asleep.  Exhausted after the strange and crucial scene, she had dozed off, and had never moved throughout George’s dressing.

Now he rushed into the dining-room—­“I have to go, nurse.  Fardy can’t have his breakfast with you!”—­and rushed out.  A minute previously he had felt a serious need of food after the long, sleepless morning.  The need vanished.  He scurried up Elm Park Gardens like a boy in the warm, fresh air, and stopped a taxi.  He was extremely excited.  None but Lois knew the great secret.  He had kept it to himself.  He might have burst into the kitchen—­for he was very apt to be informal—­and said:  “Well, cook, I’m going into the Army!” What a household sensation the news would cause, and what an office sensation!  His action would affect the lives of all manner of people.  And the house, at present alive and organic, would soon be dead.  He was afraid.  What he was doing was tremendous.  Was it madness?  He had a feeling of unreality.

At the entrance to the Berkeley Hotel lay a large automobile, with a spurred and highly polished military chauffeur.  At the door of Colonel Rannion’s room was stationed a spurred and highly polished, erect orderly—­formidable contrast to the flaccid waiters who slouched palely in the corridors.  The orderly went into the room and saluted with a click.  George followed, as into a dentist’s surgery.  It was a small, elegant, private sitting-room resembling a boudoir.  In the midst of delicately tinted cushions and flower-vases stood Colonel Rannion, grey-haired, blue-eyed, very straight, very tall, very slim—­the slimness accentuated by a close-fitted uniform which began with red tabs and ended in light leggings and gleaming spurs.  He conformed absolutely to the traditional physical type of soldier, and the sight of him gave pleasure.

“Good morning.  Cannon.  Glad to see you.”  He seemed to put a secret meaning into the last words.

He shook hands as he spoke, firmly, decisively, efficiently.

“I hope I’m not troubling you too much,” George began.

“Troubling me!  Sit down.  You want a commission.  The Army wants to give commissions to men like you.  I think you would make a good officer.”

“Of course I’m absolutely ignorant of the Army.  Absolutely.”

“Yes.  What a pity that is!  If you’d only been a pre-war Territorial you might have done three weeks’ urgent work for your country by this time.”  The remark was a polite reproof.

“I might,” admitted George, to whom the notion of working for his country had never before occurred.