Richard Lovat was at the end of all patience. They persisted he was a foreigner--poor Somers, just because he had a beard. One of the most intensely English little men England ever produced, with a passion for his country, even if it were often a passion of hatred. But no, they persisted he was a foreigner. Pah! He and Harriet did all their own work, their own shopping. One wintry afternoon they were coming home with a knapsack, along the field path above the sea, when two khaki individuals, officers of some sort, strode after them. “Excuse me,” said one, in a damnatory officious voice. “What have you got in that sack?” “A few groceries,” said Lovat. “I would like to look.” Somers put the sack down on the path. The tall and lofty officer stooped and groped nobly among a pound of rice and a piece of soap and a dozen candles. “Ha!” he cried, exultant. “What’s this? A camera!” Richard peeped in the bag at the groping red military hands. For a moment he almost believed that a camera had spirited itself in among his few goods, the implication of his guilt was so powerful. He saw a block in brown paper. “A penn’orth of salt,” he said quietly, though pale to the lips with anger and insult. But the gentlemanly officer--a Captain--tore open the paper. Yes, a common block of salt. He pushed the bag aside. “We have to be careful,” said the other, lesser man. “Of course,” said Richard, tying up his bag. “Good afternoon!” said Harriet. The fellows half saluted, and turned hastening away. Richard and Harriet had the advantage of sauntering behind them and looking at their noble backs. Oh, they were gentlemen, true English gentlemen: perhaps Cornish. Harriet gave a pouf of laughter. “The poor innocent salt!” she exclaimed. And no doubt that also was chalked up against her. It was Christmas time, and two friends came down to stay at the cottage with the Somers. Those were the days before America joined the Allies. The man friend arrived with a whole parcel of American dainties, buckwheat meal and sweet potatoes and maple sugar: the woman friend brought a good basket of fruit. They were to have a Christmas in the lonely cottage in spite of everything. It was Christmas Eve, and a pouring black wet night outside. Nowhere can it be so black as on the edge of a Cornish moor, above the western sea, near the rocks where the ancient worshippers used to sacrifice. The darkness of menhirs. The American woman friend was crouching at the fire making fudge, the man was away in his room, when a thundering knock at the door. Ah Lord! The burly police-sergeant, and his bicycle. “Sorry to trouble you, sir, but is an American, a Mr Monsell, stopping here with you? He is. Can I have a word with him?” “Yes. Won’t you come in?” Into the cosy cottage room, with the American girl at the fire, her face flushed with the fudge-making, entered the big, burly ruddy police-sergeant, his black mackintosh-cape streaming wet.