Like most boys of his age, when things went his way he was as pleasant as could be. And they so generally had gone his way that when they did not he resented it and let people know it. Like nine boys out of every ten, whose chief concern in life had so far been themselves and their own troubles and enjoyments, there was a streak of natural selfishness in him, any implication of which he would have hotly resented. He could be generous enough of his superfluities, but so far had had to make no call on himself for the higher virtues of self-denial or self-restraint. In short he was just an ordinary boy merging into man, very full of himself and his own concerns and enjoyments, and at times a little careless of others. This odd new friendliness which had sprung up of late between himself and Victoria Luard was all very much to the good. It came in between him and himself and made him feel ready, and even anxious, to do great things for her, and to consider her feelings even before his own. But, at the same time, his feeling of personal discrepancy with regard to her, drove him in the rebound to occasional little displays of bearishness and boyish arrogance, the springs of which Victoria understood perfectly and was vastly amused at. Gregor MacLean, with the advantages of his extra five years and much shoulder-rubbing with his fellows, had grown out of these youthful discordances, and he sometimes took Noel humorously to task for his little lapses, and Noel would take more from him in that way than from anyone else. Honor of course, in sisterly fashion, saw his faults and did not pass them over in silence. Still, she also generally did it in humorous fashion which left no more than a momentary sting even if it did not produce much result. Miss Mitten knitted untiringly. Victoria gravely asserted to Mrs Dare and Honor, when they had dropped in for tea one afternoon, that, so assured was Auntie Mitt that the outcome of the war depended entirely on the number of body-belts and mufflers she could complete in a given time, that she went on knitting all night long in her sleep. And Auntie Mitt, in no way offended, though somewhat scandalised at such public mention of her in the privacy of her bed, only smiled and knitted harder than ever. “The cold weather will be coming soon,” she said gently, “and it’s cold work fighting in the trenches.” “But, my dear Auntie Mitt, they don’t fight in trenches nowadays,” said Vic. “No?... They used to. I remember ... I remember hearing much of the discomforts of the trenches in the Crimean War from those who had taken part in it.” “Nowadays they fire shell at you from four or five miles away and you’re dead before you know what’s hit you,” said Honor. “It’s low kind of fighting to my mind.” “Or drop bombs on you from aeroplanes without a chance of hitting back,” added Vic, “which is lower still.”