"But there are hundreds of regiments forming here--getting ready, drilling, leaving on boats and trains every day----" "And every regiment is composed of men exactly like me! They go because the Nation's business is everybody's business. And the Nation's business comes first. There's no use talking to me, Ailsa. I've had it but with father. He saw that he couldn't prevent me from doing what he has done. And old Lent is our major! Lord, Ailsa, _what_ a terrible old man for discipline! And father is--well he is acting as though we ought to behave like West Pointers. They're cruelly hard on skylarkers and guard runners, and they're fairly kicking discipline into us. But I'm willing. I'm ready to stand anything as long as we can get away!" He was talking in a loud, excited voice, pacing restlessly to and fro, pausing at intervals to confront Ailsa where she sat, limp and silent, gazing up at this slender youth in his short blue jacket edged with many bell-buttons, blue body sash, scarlet zouave trousers and leather gaiters. Presently old Jonas shuffled in with Madeira, cakes, and sandwiches, and Stephen began on them immediately. "I came over so you could see me in my uniform," he explained; "and I'm going back right away to see mother and Paige and Marye and Camilla." He paused, sandwich suspended, then swallowed what he had been chewing and took another bite, recklessly. "I'm very fond of Camilla," he said condescendingly. "She's very nice about my going--the only one who hasn't snivelled. I tell you, Ailsa, Camilla is a good deal of a girl. . . . And I've promised to look out for her uncle--keep an eye on old Lent, you know, which seems to comfort her a good deal when she begins crying---- "Oh. . . I thought Camilla didn't cry." "She cries a little--now and then." "About her uncle?" "Certainly." Ailsa looked down at her ringless fingers. Within the week she had laid away both rings, meaning to resume them some day. "If you and your father go, your office will be closed, I suppose." "Oh, no. Farren will run it." "I see. . . . And Mr. Berkley, too, I suppose." Stephen looked up from his bitten seedcake. "Berkley? He left long ago." "Left--where?" she asked, confused. "Left the office. It couldn't be helped. There was nothing for him to do. I was sorry--I'm sorrier now----" He checked himself, hesitated, turned his troubled eyes on Ailsa. "I _did_ like him so much." "Don't you like him--still?" "Yes--_I_ do. I don't know what was the matter with that man. He went all to pieces." "W-what!" "Utterly. Isn't it too bad." She sat there very silent, very white. Stephen bit into another cake, angrily. "It's the company he keeps," he said--"a lot of fast men--fast enough to be talked about, fashionable enough to be tolerated--Jack Casson is one of them, and that little ass, Arthur Wye. _That's_ the crowd--a horse-racing, hard-drinking, hard-gambling crew."