Elizabeth translated, feeling rather choky. '"On the Spartans at Thermopylæ. '"Him--"' 'That's Xerxes, of course,' put in Desmond. '"Him, who changed the paths of earth and sea, who sailed upon the mainland, and walked upon the deep--him did Spartan valour hold back, with just three hundred spears. Shame on you, mountains and seas!"' 'Well, that's all right, isn't it?' said the boy simply, looking up. 'Couldn't put it better if you tried, could you?' Then he said, hesitating a little as he turned down the leaf, and put the book in his pocket, 'Five of the fellows who were in the Sixth with me this time last year are dead by now. It makes you think a bit, doesn't it?--Hullo, there is father!' He turned joyously, his young figure finely caught in the light of Elizabeth's lamp against the background of the Nikê. 'Well, father you have been a time! I thought you'd forgotten altogether I was off to-night.' 'The train was abominably late. Travelling is becoming a perfect nuisance! I gave the station-master a piece of my mind,' said the Squire angrily. 'And I expect he said that you civilians jolly well have to wait for the munition trains!' 'He muttered some nonsense of that sort. I didn't listen to him.' The Squire threw himself down in an arm-chair. Desmond perched on the corner of a table near. Elizabeth discreetly took up her work and disappeared. 'How much time have you got?' asked the Squire abruptly. 'Oh, a few minutes. Aubrey and I are to have some supper before I go. But Forest'll come and tell me.' 'Everything ready? Got money enough?' 'Rather! I shan't want anything for an age. Why, I shall be buying war-loan out of my pay!' He laughed happily. Then his face grew suddenly serious. 'Look here, father--I want awfully to say something. Do you mind?' 'If you want to say it, I suppose you will say it.' The Squire was sitting hunched up, looking old and tired, his thick white hair piled fantastically above his eyes. Desmond straightened his shoulders with the air of one going over the parapet. 'Well, it's this, father. I do wish you'd give up that row about the park!' The Squire sat up impatiently. 'That's not your business, Desmond. It can't matter to you.' 'Yes, but it _does_ matter to me!' said the boy with energy. 'It'll be in all the papers--the fellows will gas about it at mess--it's awfully hard lines on me. It makes me feel rotten!' The Squire laughed. He was reminded of a Fourth of June years before, when Desmond had gone through agonies of shame because his father was not, in his eyes, properly 'got-up' for the occasion--how he had disappeared in the High Street, and only joined his people again in the crowd at the fireworks. 'I recommend you to stick it, Desmond. It won't last long. I've got my part to play, and you've got yours. You fight because they make you.' 'I _don't!_' said the boy passionately. 'I fight because--' Then his words broke down. He descended from the table.