“Would you marry old Guy if he asked you?  Don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m not.”

“Of course, we’ve all known for ages how much he cares for you.  He spoke to me about it to-day.  He’s desperately afraid of your refusing him.  He daren’t put his fate to the test.  Beattie—­would you?”

A slow red crept over Beatrice’s face.  She put up one hand to guard herself from the glow of the fire.  For a moment she looked at Dion, and he thought, “What a strange expression firelight can give to a face!” Then she said: 

“I can’t tell you.”

Her voice was husky.

“Beattie, you’ve got a cold!”

“Have I?”

She got up.

“I must go, Dion.  I’ll just see Rosamund for a minute.”

As she left the room, she said: 

“I’ll go and see your mother to-morrow.”

The door shut.  Dion stood with one elbow resting on the mantelpiece and looked down into the fire.  He saw his mother sitting alone, a strange, emptied figure; he saw Beatrice.  And fire, which beautifies, or makes romantic and sad everything gave to Beatrice the look of his mother.  For a moment his soul was full of questions about the two women.

CHAPTER II

“I’ve joined the Artists’ Rifles,” Dion said to Rosamund one day.

He spoke almost bruskly.  Of late he had begun to develop a manner which had just a hint of roughness in it sometimes.  This manner was the expression of a strong inward effort he was making.  If, as his mother believed, already Rosamund was able to live with the child, Dion’s solitary possession of the woman he loved was definitely over, probably forever.  Something within him which, perhaps, foolishly, rebelled against this fact had driven him to seek a diversion; he had found it in beginning to try to live for the child in the man’s way.  He intended to put the old life behind him, and to march vigorously on to the new.  He called up Master Tim before him in the little white “sweater,” with the primrose-colored ruffled feathers of hair, the gritted white teeth, small almost as the teeth of a mouse, the moist, ardent cheeks, and the glowing eyes looking steadfastly to the Tribal God.  He must be the Tribal God to his little son, if the child were a son.

Rosamund did not seem surprised by Dion’s abrupt statement, though he had never spoken of an intention to join any Volunteer Corps.  She knew he was fond of shooting, and had been in camp sometimes when he was at a public school.

“What’s that?” she asked.  “I’ve heard of it, but I thought it was a corps for men who are painters, sculptors, writers and musicians.”

“It was founded, nearly forty years ago, I believe, for fellows working in the Arts, but all sorts of business men are let in now.”

“Will it take up much time?”

“No; I shall have to drill a certain amount, and in summer I shall go into camp for a bit, and of course, if a big war ever came, I could be of some use.”