But—­as always when any new responsibility presented itself to him—­a deep inner weariness rebelled.  In small things as in great, he was mentally like a man walking and working with a broken limb.

* * * * *

Arthur Chicksands stood some time that evening waiting on the doorstep of Mrs. Strang’s small house, in one of the old streets of Westminster.  ‘No servants, I suppose,’ he said to himself with resignation.  But it was bitterly cold, and he was relieved to hear at last the sound of a voice and a girl’s laugh inside.  Pamela opened the door to him, pulling down the sleeves of a thin black dress over her shapely arms.

’Oh, come in.  Margaret’s cooking the dinner, and I’ve laid the table.  Bernard’s just bringing up some coals, and then we’re ready.’

Mr. Bernard Strang, a distinguished Home Office official, appeared at that moment in his shirt-sleeves at the head of the kitchen stairs, bearing a scuttle of coal in each hand.

‘Gracious!  Give me one of them!’ said the Captain, hurrying to the rescue.

But Mr. Strang, putting down the right-hand scuttle, to take breath, warned him off.

’Thank you, Chicksands—­but no brass hats need apply!  Many thanks—­but you’re too smart!’ He pointed, panting, to the red tabs and to the bit of variegated ribbon on Chicksands’ broad chest.  ’Go and help Pamela bring in the dinner.’

The Captain obeyed with alacrity.

‘All the servants left on Monday,’ said Pamela.  ’We had a charwoman this morning, but she’s gone to-night, because there’s a new moon.’

‘What—­raids?’

Pamela nodded as she gave him the soup, with instructions to carry it carefully and put it by the fire.  She seemed to be in her gayest mood, and Chicksands’ eyes followed her perpetually as she went backwards and forwards on her household tasks.  Presently Mrs. Strang appeared, crimson from the fire, bearing the fishpie and vegetables that were to provide the rationed meal.

‘To think,’ said Mr. Strang, when they were at last at table, ’that there was a time when we were proud of our “little dinners,” and that I never made myself unpleasant unless Margaret spent more than five pounds on the food alone.  Shall I ever eat a good dinner again?’

He looked wistfully at the bare table.

‘Will you ever want to?’ said Arthur, quietly.

A momentary silence fell upon the little party.  Bernard Strang had lost two brothers in the war, and Chicksands had no sooner spoken than he reproached himself for a tactless brute.  But, suddenly, the bells of the Abbey rang:  out above their heads, playing with every stroke on the nerves of the listeners.  For the voice of England was in them, speaking to that under-consciousness which the war has developed in us all.

‘Any news?’ said Strang, looking at Arthur.

‘No.  The Eastern business gets a little worse every day.’