“I call Mr. Leith a very personable man.  Without having Mrs. Leith’s wonderful charm—­what man could have?—­he makes a distinct impression.  He has suppressed force, and that’s what women like in a man.”

Henry took another griddle cake, and wondered whether he was wise in looking so decided.  Perhaps he ought to suppress his undoubted force; perhaps all his life, without knowing it, he had hovered on the verge of the blatant.

Canon Wilton also was struck by the change in Dion, and said something, but not just then all, of what he felt.

“You know the phrase, ‘I’m my own man again,’ Leith, don’t you?” he said, in his strong bass voice, looking steadily at Dion with his kindly stern eyes. (He always suggested to Dion a man who would be very stern with himself.)

“Yes,” said Dion.  “Why?”

“I think South Africa’s made you your own man.”

Dion looked tremendously, but seriously, pleased.

“Do you?  And what about the again?”

“Cut it out.  I don’t think you’d ever been absolutely your own man before you went away.”

“I wonder if I am now,” Dion said, but without any weakness.

He had been through one war and had come out of it well; now he had come home to another.  The one campaign had been but a stern preparation for the other perhaps.  But Rosamund did not know that.  Nevertheless, it seemed to him that already their relation to each other was slightly altered.  He felt that she was more sensitive to him than formerly, more closely observant of what he was and what he did, more watchful of him with Robin, more anxious about his opinion on various matters.

For instance, there was the matter of Mr. Thrush.

Dion had not seen Mr. Thrush on the evening of his first day at Welsley.  He had been kept so busy by Rosamund, had done and seen so much, that he had quite forgotten the ex-chemist.  In the evening, however, before dinner, he suddenly remembered him.

“What’s become of Mr. Thrush?” he asked.  “And, by the way, what is he doing down here?  You never told me, Rose, and even Robin’s not said a word.”

“I asked him not to,” said Rosamund, with her half-shrewd, half-soft look.  “The fact is——­” She broke off, then continued, with her confidential air, “Dion, when you see Mr. Thrush I want you to tell me something truthfully.  Will you?”

“I’ll try to.  What is it?”

“I want you to look at his nose—­”

“Rosamund!”

“No, really,” she pursued, with great earnestness.  “And I want you to tell me whether you think, honestly think, it—­better.”

“But why?”

“It’s very important for Mr. Thrush that it should look better.  He’s down here to be seen.”

Her voice had become almost mysterious.

“To be seen?  By whom?  Is he on show in the town?”

“No—­don’t laugh.  It’s really important for his future.  I must tell you something.  He’s taken the modified pledge.”