got a lot to be thankful for!” he said abruptly.  “I must go to work!” His wife, raising one eyebrow, smiled.  “And I to weep!” Mr. Bosengate laughed—­she had a pretty wit!  And stroking his comely moustache where it had been kissed, he moved out into the sunshine.  All the evening, throughout his labours, not inconsiderable, for this jury business had put him behind time, he was afflicted by that restless pleasure in his surroundings; would break off in mowing the lower lawn to look at the house through the trees; would leave his study and committee papers, to cross into the drawing-room and sniff its dainty fragrance; paid a special good-night visit to the children having supper in the schoolroom; pottered in and out from his dressing room to admire his wife while she was changing for dinner; dined with his mind perpetually on the next course; talked volubly of the war; and in the billiard room afterwards, smoking the pipe which had taken the place of his cigar, could not keep still, but roamed about, now in conservatory, now in the drawing-room, where his wife and the governess were still making swabs.  It seemed to him that he could not have enough of anything.  About eleven o’clock he strolled out beautiful night, only just dark enough—­under the new arrangement with Time—­and went down to the little round fountain below the terrace.  His wife was playing the piano.  Mr. Bosengate looked at the water and the flat dark water lily leaves which floated there; looked up at the house, where only narrow chinks of light showed, because of the Lighting Order.  The dreamy music drifted out; there was a scent of heliotrope.  He moved a few steps back, and sat in the children’s swing under an old lime tree.  Jolly—­blissful—­in the warm, bloomy dark!  Of all hours of the day, this before going to bed was perhaps the pleasantest.  He saw the light go up in his wife’s bed room, unscreened for a full minute, and thought:  ’Aha!  If I did my duty as a special, I should “strafe” her for that.’  She came to the window, her figure lighted, hands up to the back of her head, so that her bare arms gleamed.  Mr. Bosengate wafted her a kiss, knowing he could not be seen.  ’Lucky chap!’ he mused; ‘she’s a great joy!’ Up went her arm, down came the blind the house was dark again.  He drew a long breath.  ’Another ten minutes,’ he thought, ’then I’ll go in and shut up.  By Jove!  The limes are beginning to smell already!’ And, the better to take in that acme of his well-being, he tilted the swing, lifted his feet from the ground, and swung himself toward the scented blossoms.  He wanted to whelm his senses in their perfume, and closed his eyes.  But instead of the domestic vision he expected, the face of the little Welsh soldier, hare-eyed, shadowy, pinched and dark and pitiful, started up with such disturbing vividness that he opened his eyes again at once.  Curse!  The fellow almost haunted one!  Where would he be now poor little devil!—­lying in his cell,