when quite a child, being rescued from a burning house, with his father right in the foreground giving thanks to God in the old-fashioned knee-breeches that were then worn.  The other represented the Duke of Wellington in a similar frame on his famous charger Copenhagen and in the act of saying in his racy way, ’Up, Guards, and at ’em!’ My great-uncle would often point to these two pictures and spell out the names for us as children, ‘W-e-s-l-e-y’ and ‘W-e-l-l-e-s-l-e-y,’ he would say.  ’What different destinies the Almighty can spell into the same word by sticking a few letters in the middle!’”

“It’s to be wished we had more men of that stamp in these days,” sighed Miss Oliver.  “I should feel safer.”

“I hear Lord Kitchener well spoken of,” said her friend guardedly.  “But I think we go too fast, my dear.  It does not follow, because the Reserves are called up, that War is actually declared.  It is sometimes done by way of precaution—­though God forbid I should say a word in defence of a Government which taxes us for being patriotic enough to keep domestic servants.  That doesn’t, of course, apply to you, my dear; still—­”

“It only makes matters worse,” Miss Oliver declared hastily.  “If they haven’t declared War yet, there’s the less hurry to gallivant these Reservists about in brakes when to-morrow’s a Bank Holiday.  And, as for patriotism, if I choose to fall downstairs taking up my own coals, surely I’m as patriotic as if I employed another person to do it:  though for some reason best known to itself the Law doesn’t compensate me.”

“There’s something in what you say,” agreed Mrs Polsue, a little mollified, having caused her friend to rankle.  “And the Law—­or the Government, or whatever you choose to call it—­could afford the money, too, if ’twould look sharper after compensating itself. . . .  A perfectly scandalous sight I witnessed just now, by the bridge.  There was that Nicholas Nanjivell called up to take his marching-orders, and—­well, you know how the man has been limping these months past.  The thing was so ridic’lous, the other men shouted with laughter; and prettily annoyed the Customs Officer, for he went the colour of a turkey-cock. ‘’Tis your own fault,’ I had a mind to tell him, ‘for not having looked after your business.’  Pounds and pounds of public money that Nanjivell must have drawn first and last for Reservist’s pay, and nobody takin’ the trouble to report on him.”

“I suppose,” said Miss Oliver, “the man really is lame, and not shamming?”

“The Lord knows, my dear.  ’Twas somebody’s business to have a look at the man’s leg, and not mine nor yours, I hope. . . .  Put it now that the case had been properly reported and a doctor sent to see the man.  If he’s shamming—­and unlikelier things have happened, now you mention it—­the doctor finds him out.  If the man’s sick, and ’tis incurable, well, so much the worse for him:  but anyway Government stops paying for a fighting man that can’t fight—­for that is what it amounts to.”