Thus James Henry--gentleman, at his country seat in England. I have gone out of my way to describe what may be taken as an average day in his life, in order to show him as he was before he went to France to be banished from the country--cashiered in disgrace a few weeks after his arrival. Which only goes to prove the change that war causes in even the most polished and courtly. I am told that the alteration for the worse started shortly after his arrival at the front. What did it I don't know--but he lost one whisker and a portion of an ear, thus giving him a somewhat lopsided appearance; though rakish withal. It may have been a detonator which went off as he ate it--it may have been foolish curiosity over a maxim--it may even have been due to the fact that he found a motor-bicycle standing still, what time it made strange provocative noises, and failed to notice that the back wheel was off the ground and rotating at a great pace. Whatever it was it altered James Henry. Not that it soured his temper--not at all; but it made him more reckless, less careful of appearances. He forgot the repose that stamps the caste of Vere de Vere, and a series of incidents occurred which tended to strain relations all round. There was the question of the three dead chickens, for instance. Had they disappeared decently and in order much might have been thought but nothing would have been known. But when they were deposited on their owner's doorstep, with James Henry mounting guard over the corpses himself, it was a little difficult to explain the matter away. That was the trouble--his sense of humour seemed to have become distorted. The pastime of hunting for rats in the sewers of Ypres cannot be too highly commended; but having got thoroughly wet in the process, James Henry's practice of depositing the rat and himself on the Adjutant's bed was open to grave criticism. But enough: these two instances were, I am sorry to state, but types of countless other regrettable episodes which caused the popularity of James Henry to wane. The final decree of death or banishment came when James had been in the country some seven weeks. On the day in question a dreadful shout was heard, followed by a flood of language which I will refrain from committing to print. And then the Colonel appeared in the door of his dug-out. "Where is that accursed idiot, Murgatroyd? Pass the word along for the damn fool." "'Urry up, Conky. The ole man's a-twittering for you." Murgatroyd emerged from a recess. "What's 'e want?" "I'd go and find out, cully. I think 'e's going to mention you in 'is will." At that moment a fresh outburst floated through the stillness. "Great 'Eavens!" Murgatroyd reluctantly rose to his feet. "So long, boys. Tell me mother she was in me thoughts up to the end." He paused outside the dug-out and then went manfully in. "You wanted me, sir."