Hugh pushed her, as a boy shoves a sister, into the end of the sofa.  There was a wood fire on the hearth in front of her, for the June evening was cool, and luxurious Hugh liked a fire.  A reading lamp was lighted above Brock’s deep chair, and there were papers on the floor by it, and more low lights.  There were magazines about, and etchings on the walls, and bits of university plunder, and the glow of rugs and of books.  It was as fascinating a place as there was in all the beautiful house.  In the midst of the bright peace Hugh stood haggard.

“Hughie!  What is it?”

“Mother,” he whispered, “help me!”

“With my last drop of blood, Hugh.”

“I can’t go on—­alone—­mother.”  His eyes were wild, and his words labored into utterance.  “I—­I don’t know what to do—­mother.”

“The war, Hughie?”

“Of course!  What else is there?” he flung at her.

“But your knee?”

“Oh, Mummy, you know as well as I that my knee is well enough.  Dad knows it, too.  The way he looks at me—­or dodges looking!  Mummy—­I’ve got to tell you—­you’ll have to know—­and maybe you’ll stop loving me.  I’m—­” He threw out his arms with a gesture of despair.  “I’m—­afraid to go.”  With that he was on his knees beside her, and his arms gripped her, and his head was hidden in her lap.  For a long minute there was only silence, and the woman held the young head tight.

Hugh lifted his face and stared from blurred eyes.  “A man might better be dead than a coward—­you’re thinking that?  That’s it.”  A sob stopped his voice, the young, dear voice.  His face, drawn into lines of age, hurt her unbearably.  She caught him against her and hid the beloved, impossible face.

“Hugh—­I—­judging you—­I?  Why, Hughie, I love you—­I only love you.  I don’t stand off and think, when it’s you and Brock.  I’m inside your hearts, feeling it with you.  I don’t know if it’s good or bad.  It’s—­my own.  Coward—­Hughie!  I don’t think such things of my darling.”

“‘There’s no—­friend like a mother,’” stammered young Hugh, and tears fell unashamed.  His mother had not seen the boy cry since he was ten years old.  He went on.  “Dad didn’t say a word, because he wouldn’t spoil your birthday, but the way he dodged—­my knee—­” He laughed miserably and swabbed away tears with the corner of his pajama coat.  “I wish I had a hanky,” he complained.  The woman dried the tear-stained cheeks hastily with her own.  “Dad’s got it in for me,” said Hugh.  “I can tell.  He’ll make me go—­now.  He—­he suspects I went skating that day hoping I’d fall—­and—­I know it wasn’t so darned unlikely.  Yes—­I did—­not the first time—­when I smashed it; that was entirely—­luck.”  He laughed again, a laugh that was a sob.  “And now—­oh, Mummy, have I got to go into that nightmare?  I hate it so.  I am—­I am—­afraid.  If—­if I should be there and—­and sent into some terrible job—­shell-fire—­dirt—­smells—­dead