“I’ll go directly,” Gerald promised.  “Can I speak to you for one moment first?”

“Speak to me,” Mr. Fentolin repeated, a little wonderingly.  “My dear Gerald, is there ever a moment when I am not wholly at your service?”

“That fellow Dunster, on the platform, the first moment I spoke to him, made me feel like a cur,” the boy said, with a sudden access of vigour in his tone.  “I told him I was on my way to a golf tournament, and he pointed to the news about the war.  Is it true, uncle, that we may be at war at any moment?”

Mr. Fentolin sighed.

“A terrible reflection, my dear boy,” he admitted softly, “but, alas! the finger of probability points that way.”

“Then what about me?” Gerald exclaimed.  “I don’t want to complain, but listen.  You dragged me home from a public school before I could even join my cadet corps.  You’ve kept me banging around here with a tutor.  You wouldn’t let me go to the university.  You’ve stopped my entering either of the services.  I am nineteen years old and useless.  Do you know what I should do to-morrow if war broke out?  Enlist!  It’s the only thing left for me.”

Mr. Fentolin was shocked.

“My dear boy!” he exclaimed.  “You must not talk like that!  I am quite sure that it would break your mother’s heart.  Enlist, indeed!  Nothing of the sort.  You are part of the civilian population of the country.”

“Civilian population be d-d!” the boy suddenly cried, white with rage.  “Uncle, forgive me, I have stood all I can bear.  If you won’t let me go in for the army—­I could pass my exams to-morrow —­I’m off.  I’ll enlist without waiting for the war.  I can’t bear this idle life any longer.”

Mr. Fentolin leaned a little forward in his chair.

“Gerald!” he said softly.

The boy turned his head, turned it unwillingly.  He had the air of a caged animal obeying the word of his keeper.  A certain savage uncouthness seemed to have fallen upon him during the last few minutes.  There was something almost like a snarl in his expression.

“Gerald!” Mr. Fentolin repeated.

Then it was obvious that there was something between those two, some memory or some living thing, seldom, if ever, to be spoken of, and yet always present.  The boy began to tremble.

“You’re a little overwrought, Gerald,” Mr. Fentolin declared.  “Sit quietly in my easy-chair for a few moments.  Walt until I have examined Mr. Dunster’s belongings.  Ah!  Meekins has been prompt, indeed.”

There was a stealthy tap at the door.  Meekins entered with the small dressing-case in his hand.  He brought it over to his master’s chair.  Mr. Fentolin pointed to the floor.

“Open it there, Meekins,” he directed.  “I fancy that the pocket-book you are carrying will prove more interesting.  We will just glance through the dressing-case first.  Thank you.  Yes, you can lay the things upon the floor.  A man of Spartan-like life, I should imagine Mr. Dunster.  A spare toothbrush, though, I am glad to see.  Pyjamas of most unattractive pattern.  And what a taste in shirts!  Nothing but wearing apparel and singularly little of that, I fancy.”