He was a tallish, lean fellow of round about thirty years, wearing grey flannels and shoes dusty from the country roads.  His thin face was sallow as if from living indoors, and he had rather more hair on his head than most of us.  In the glow of the lamp his features were very clear, and I examined them with interest, for, remember, I was expecting a stranger to give me orders.  He had a long, rather strong chin and an obstinate mouth with peevish lines about its corners.  But the remarkable feature was his eyes.  I can best describe them by saying that they looked hot—­not fierce or angry, but so restless that they seemed to ache physically and to want sponging with cold water.

They finished their talk about the picture—­which was couched in a jargon of which I did not understand one word—­and Miss Doria turned to me and the young man.

‘My cousin Launcelot Wake—­Mr Brand.’

We nodded stiffly and Mr Wake’s hand went up to smooth his hair in a self-conscious gesture.

‘Has Barnard announced dinner?  By the way, where is Mary?’

‘She came in five minutes ago and I sent her to change,’ said Miss Claire.  ’I won’t have her spoiling the evening with that horrid uniform.  She may masquerade as she likes out-of-doors, but this house is for civilized people.’

The butler appeared and mumbled something.  ‘Come along,’ cried Miss Doria, ’for I’m sure you are starving, Mr Brand.  And Launcelot has bicycled ten miles.’

The dining-room was very unlike the hall.  The panelling had been stripped off, and the walls and ceiling were covered with a dead-black satiny paper on which hung the most monstrous pictures in large dull-gold frames.  I could only see them dimly, but they seemed to be a mere riot of ugly colour.  The young man nodded towards them.  ’I see you have got the Degousses hung at last,’ he said.

‘How exquisite they are!’ cried Miss Claire.  ’How subtle and candid and brave!  Doria and I warm our souls at their flame.’

Some aromatic wood had been burned in the room, and there was a queer sickly scent about.  Everything in that place was strained and uneasy and abnormal—­the candle shades on the table, the mass of faked china fruit in the centre dish, the gaudy hangings and the nightmarish walls.  But the food was magnificent.  It was the best dinner I had eaten since 1914.

‘Tell me, Mr Brand,’ said Miss Doria, her long white face propped on a much-beringed hand.  ’You are one of us?  You are in revolt against this crazy war?’

‘Why, yes,’ I said, remembering my part.  ’I think a little common-sense would settle it right away.’

‘With a little common-sense it would never have started,’ said Mr Wake.

‘Launcelot’s a C.O., you know,’ said Miss Doria.

I did not know, for he did not look any kind of soldier . . .  I was just about to ask him what he commanded, when I remembered that the letters stood also for ‘Conscientious Objector,’ and stopped in time.