his Aunt Beattie had given him.  Dion began to understand the rightness of his instinct that evening by the river, when Westminster had spoken to him and England had whispered in his blood.  As he had thought of things, so they were going to be.  The test was very great.  It was as if already it stood by him, a living entity, and touched him with an imperious hand.  Sometimes he looked at Rosamund and saw great stretches of sea rolling under great stretches of sky.  The barrier!  How would he be able to bear the long separation from Rosamund?  The habit of happiness in certain circumstances can become the scourge of a man.  Men who were unhappy at home could go to war with a lighter heart than he.

Just before Christmas the call for men came, and in Dion a hesitation was born.  Should he go and offer himself at once without telling Rosamund, or should he tell her what he wished to do and ask her opinion?  Suppose she were against his going out?  He could not ask her advice if he was not prepared to take it.  What line did he wish her to take?  By what course of action would such a woman as Rosamund prove depth of love?  Wouldn’t it be natural for a woman who loved a man to raise objections to his going out to fight in a distant country?  Wouldn’t she prove her love by raising objections?  On the other hand, wouldn’t a woman who loved a man in the greatest way be driven by the desire to see him rise up in an emergency and prove his manhood at whatever cost to her?

Dion wanted one thing of Rosamund at this moment, wanted it terribly, with longing and with fear,—­the proof absolute and unhesitating of her love for him.

He decided to volunteer without telling her before hand that he meant to do so.  He told no one of his intention except his Uncle Biron, whom he was obliged to consult as they were partners in business.

“You’re right, my boy,” said his uncle.  “We’ll get on as best we can without you.  We shall miss you, of course.  Since you’ve been married your energy has been most praiseworthy, but, of course, the nation comes before the firm.  What does your mother say?”

Dion was struck with a sense of wonder by this question.  Why didn’t his uncle ask him what Rosamund had said?

“I haven’t spoken to her,” he answered.

“She’ll wish you to go in spite of all,” said his uncle gravely.

“I haven’t even spoken to Rosamund of my intention to enlist.”

His uncle looked surprised, even for a moment astonished, but he only said: 

“She’s rather on heroic lines, I should judge.  There’s something spacious in her nature.”

“Yes,” said Dion.

He pledged his uncle to silence.  Then they talked business.

From that moment Dion wondered how his mother would take his decision.  That he had not wondered before proved to himself the absorbing character of his love for his wife.  He loved his mother very much, yet, till his uncle had spoken about her in the office, he had only thought about Rosamund in connection with his decision to enlist.  The very great thing had swallowed up the big thing.  There is something ruthless, almost at moments repellent, in the very great thing which rules in a man’s life.  But his mother would never know.