They were at the gate by now.  Sir Robert stood aside to let her pass.  “I know, dear,” he said, “I’m an old fogey.  Besides, young Graham has good stuff in him—­I always said so.  But if he’s on the tack of trying to stick his fingers into people’s souls, he’s made a mistake in going to France.  I know Tommy—­or I did know him. (The Lord alone knows what’s in the Army these days.) He doesn’t want that sort of thing.  He swears and he grouses and he drinks, but he respects God Almighty more than you’d think, and he serves his Queen—­I mean his King.  A parade service is a parade, and it’s a bore at times, but it’s discipline, and it helps in the end.  Like that little ‘do’ to-night, it helps.  One comes away feelin’ one can stand a bit more for the sake of the decent, clean things of life.”

Hilda regarded the fine, straight old man for a second as they stood, on the top of the steps.  Then her eyes grew a little misty.  “God bless you, Uncle Bob,” she said.  “You do understand.”  And the two went in together.

Hilda opened the door of the study.  “I’m going to make you comfortable myself,” she said.  She pulled a big armchair round; placed a reading-lamp on a small table and drew it close; and she made the old soldier sit in the chair.  Then she unlocked a little cupboard, and got out a decanter and siphon and glass, and a box of cigars.  She placed these by his side, and stood back quizzically a second.  Then she threw a big leather cushion at his feet and walked to the switches, turning off the main light and leaving only the shaded radiance of the reading-lamp.  She turned the shade of it so that the light would fall on the letter while she sat on the cushion, and then she bent down, kissed her godfather, and went to the door.  “I won’t be a moment, Uncle Bob,” she said.  “Help yourself, and get comfortable.”

Five minutes later the door opened and she came in.  As she moved into the circle of light, the man felt an absurd satisfaction, as if he were partly responsible for the dignified figure with its beautifully waved soft, fair hair, of which he was so proud.  She smiled on him, and sat down at his feet, leaning back against his chair and placing her left elbow on his knees.  He laid a caressing hand on her arm, and then looked steadily in front of him lest he should see more than she wished.

Hilda rustled the sheets.  “The first is all about me,” she explained, “and I’ll skip that.  Let me see—­yes, here we are.  Now listen.  It’s rather long, but you mustn’t say anything till I’ve finished.”

“‘Saturday’ (Peter’s letter ran) I gave up to getting ready for Sunday, though Harold’ (he’s the O.C. of the camp, Peter says, a jolly decent sort of man) ’wanted me to go up town with him.  I had had a talk with him about the services, and had fixed up to have a celebration in the morning in the Y.M.C.A. in camp—­they have a quiet room, and there is a table in it that one puts against the wall and uses for an altar—­and