Perhaps the matter would not have appeared so simple to either of them had they known that Stimson had no sooner passed completely out of sight, leaving the wide stretches of the park empty and untenanted under a sky already alive with stars, than the same figure reappeared, and after pausing a moment, apparently to reconnoitre, disappeared within the wood.

“A year ago to-day, where were you?” said one Brigadier to another, as the two Generals stood against the wall in the Beechmark drawing-room to watch the dancing.

“Near Albert,” said the man addressed.  “The brigade was licking its wounds and training drafts.”

The other smiled.

“Mine was doing the same thing—­near Armentieres.  We didn’t think then, did we, that it would be all over in five months?”

“It isn’t all over!” said the first speaker, a man with a refined and sharply cut face, still young under a shock of grey hair.  “We are in the ground swell of the war.  The ship may go down yet.”

“While the boys and girls dance?  I hope not!” The soldier’s eyes ran smiling over the dancing throng.  Then he dropped his voice: 

“Listen!”

For a very young boy and girl had come to stand in front of them.  The boy had just parted from a girl a good deal older than himself, who had nodded to him a rather patronizing farewell, as she glided back into the dance with a much decorated Major.

“These pre-war girls are rather dusty, aren’t they?” said the boy angrily to his partner.

“You mean they give themselves airs?  Well, what does it matter?  It’s we who have the good time now!” said the little creature beside him, a fairy in filmy white, dancing about him as she spoke, hardly able to keep her feet still for a moment, life and pleasure in every limb.

The two soldiers—­both fathers—­smiled at each other.  Then Helena came down the room, a vision of spring, with pale green floating about her, and apple-blossoms in her brown hair.  She was dancing with Geoffrey French, and both were dancing with remarkable stateliness and grace to some Czech music, imposed upon the band by Helena, who had given her particular friends instruction on the lawn that afternoon in some of the steps that fitted it.  They passed with the admiring or envious eyes of the room upon them, and disappeared through the window leading to the lawn.  For on the smooth-shaven turf of the lawn there was supplementary dancing, while the band in the conservatory, with all barriers removed, was playing both for the inside and outside revellers.

Peter Dale was sitting out on the terrace over-looking the principal lawn with the daughter of Lady Mary Chance, a rather pretty but stupid girl, with a genius for social blunders.  Buntingford had committed him to a dance with her, and he was not grateful.

“She is pretty, of course, but horribly fast!” said his partner contemptuously, as Helena passed.  “Everybody thinks her such bad style!”