Poor old Winterbourne was incapable of insulting any one, but it was a convention always established between Mrs. Winterbourne and her lovers that Winterbourne had “insulted” her, when his worst taunt had been to pray earnestly for her conversion to the True Faith, along with the rest of “poor misguided England.” In low moaning tones, founded on the best tradition of sensational fiction, Mrs. Winterbourne feebly ejaculated: “Dead, dead, dead!” “Who’s dead? Winterbourne?” (Some apprehension perhaps in the attendant Sam Browne—he would have to propose, of course, and might be accepted.) “They’ve killed him, those vile, _filthy_ foreigners. My _baby_ son.” Sam Browne, still mystified, read the telegram. He then stood to attention, saluted (although not wearing a cap) and said solemnly: “A clean sportin’ death, an _Englishman’s_ death.” When Huns were killed it was neither clean nor sportin’, but served the beggars—(“buggers,” among men)—right. The tears Mrs. Winterbourne shed were not very natural, but they did not take long to dry. Dramatically, she ran to the telephone. Dramatically, she called to the local exchange: “Trrrunks. (Sob.) Give me Kensington 1030. Mr. Winterbourne’s number, you know. (Sob.) Our _darling_ son—Captain Winterbourne,—has been killed by those (sob) beasts. (Sob. Pause.) Oh, thank you _so_ much, Mr. Crump, I _knew_ you would feel for us in our trouble. (Sob. Sob.) But the blow is so sudden. I _must_ speak to Mr. Winterbourne. Our hearts are _breaking_ here. (Sobissimo.) Thank you. I’ll wait till you ring me.” Mrs. Winterbourne’s effort on the telephone to her husband was not unworthy of her: “Is that you, George? Yes, Isabel speaking. I have just had _rather_ bad news. No, about George. You must be prepared, darling. I fear he is seriously ill. What? No. _George._ GEORGE. Can’t you hear? Yes, that’s better. Now, listen, darling, you must prepare for a _great_ shock. George is seriously ill. Yes, _our_ George, our _baby_ son. What? Wounded? No, not wounded, very _dangerously_ ill. No, darling, there is little hope. (Sob.) Yes, darling, a telegram from the _King_ and _Queen_. Shall I read it? You are prepared for the shock (sob), George, aren’t you? ‘Deeply regret... killed in action.... Their Majesties’ sympathy....’ (Sob. Long pause.) Are you there, George? Hullo, hullo? (Sob.) Hullo, hullo. HULLO. (Aside to Sam Browne.) He’s rung off! How that man _insults_ me, how can I bear it in my sorrow? After I had prepared him for the shock! (Sob. Sob.) But I have always had to _fight_ for my children, while he squatted over his books—and _prayed_.” To Mrs. Winterbourne’s credit let it be said, she had very little belief in the value of prayer in practical affairs. But then her real objection to religion was founded upon her dislike for doing anything she didn’t want to do, and a profound hatred for everything distantly resembling thought.