"I wish," he said, "that that grinning little idiot would stop advertising herself for a bit. You can't pick up a picture-paper without seeing her selling things or dressing up or generally pushing herself into the limelight. She wants smacking." Both men at the table looked up. "Who's the grinning idiot in question, major?" "Isobel FitzPeter. Here you are--a whole page of her and her bally bulldog, labeled 'A famous Beauty--and Friend.' Same photograph in _The Sketch_, called 'Beauty and the Beast'! It makes me sick!" Allen suddenly got up and went out of the room without a word, very red in the face. Richards and Major Parker stared after him, the former very embarrassed, the latter simply surprised. "What's the matter?" asked the major blankly. "I expect poor old Denis felt he might have used language unbefitting your rank if he'd stayed. You see--don't let on to a soul, mind--he's most frightfully gone on the FitzPeter girl." "Good God, Dickie, what have I said? D'you mean they're engaged or anything?" "Oh, no. I don't believe she knows him at all. He used to play cricket at her father's place, and they were rather pals then, I believe. But since she's grown up, they've never met. But you know how it is out here. If I hadn't had my wife to think about, I'd have gone mad long ago. Denis doesn't seem to have many feminine belongings of his own, so he's simply installed this girl as a kind of goddess. He seems to live for the illustrated papers--simply devours them, and cuts out her picture. This is all rather confidential, major." "Of course. Poor old chap. You know, Dickie, I do happen to know the lady. In peace time she was as nice a kid as you could want to meet. If Denis hasn't met her since then, I don't wonder at him, because she's really frightfully pretty. But her head has been utterly turned. She acts as parlor-maid once a fortnight in a hospital my sister runs in Kensington, and she's more hindrance than help, because she never arrives in time, and she's always got some footling reason for wanting to go early. But her photograph in V.A.D. uniform gets published about once a fortnight, usually headed 'Nursing the Wounded,' or, 'An Indefatigable War Worker'! The worst of it is she's got brains if she'd use them; only she won't. A spoilt, thoughtless little idiot, and as pretty as they make 'em. Poor old Denis." At this point Allen returned and resumed his work without a word. The major fell silent. Richards cast about for some subject to cover the awkward break in the conversation. "D'you know when we go back to the line, sir?" he asked at last. "Not settled. End of the week, I think. Look here, I've interrupted you fellows quite enough. Give me some of those letters." "Thanks awfully, sir. You're a sportsman." By dinner time the pile was finished, and Allen had time to write his note. "DEAR PEGGY," he wrote,--