“Oh, if it only would not make him _more_ unhappy, I would go to him this minute, and refuse ever to leave him again. “Does that sound unmaidenly, Ormonde? I don’t care whether it does or not, nor whether it _is_ or not. I love him, and he loves me. I am his _friend_. Could I stay here in luxury if it would make him happier to marry me? Am I a terribly abandoned female? I told Auntie Yvette just what I had done, and though it simply saved her life to know he had not committed suicide (I believe she _worshipped_ father)—she seemed mortally shocked at me for behaving so. I am not a bit ashamed though. Dam is more important than good form, and I had to show him in the strongest possible way that he was dearer to me than ever. If it _was_ ‘behaving like a servant-girl’—all honour to servant-girls, I think … considering the circumstances. You should have seen his face before he caught sight of me. Yes—_and_ after, too. Though really I think he suffered more from my kissing him—in uniform, in the street—than if I had cut him. It would be only for the minute though … it _must_ comfort him _now_, and always, to think that I love him so (since he loves _me_—and always has done). But what I must know before I can sleep peacefully again is the name by which he goes in the ‘2 Q.G’s.,’ so that I can write and comfort him regularly, send him things, and make him buy himself out when he sees he has been foolish and wicked in supposing that he has publicly disgraced himself and his name and us. And I’m going to make Grandfather’s life a misery, and go about skinny and ragged and weeping, and say: ‘_This_ is how you treat the daughter of your dead friend, you wicked, cruel, unjust old man,’ until he relents and sends for Dam and gets him into the Army properly…. But I am afraid Dam will think it his silly duty to flee from me and all my works, and hide himself where the names of de Warrenne and Stukeley are unknown and cannot be disgraced. “I rely on you, Ormonde, “Your ashamed grateful friend, “LUCILLE GAVESTONE.” Second Lieutenant Delorme rang the bell. “Bradshaw,” he said, as his soldier-servant appeared. “And get me a telegraph form.” “Yussir,” said Private Billings, and marched to the Mess ante-room purposefully, with hope in his heart that Mr. Delorme ’ad nothink less than a ’alf dollar for the telegram and would forgit to arx for the chainge, as was his occasional praiseworthy procedure. Mr. Delorme, alas, proved to have a mean and vulgar shilling, the which he handed to Private Billings with a form containing the message:— “Can do. So cheer up. Writing his adjutant, pal of mine. Coming over Saturday if get leave. Going Shorncliffe if necessary. Leave due. Dam all right. Will blow over. Thanks for letting me help.” “’Fraid they don’ give no tick at the Telegraft Orfis, Sir,” observed Private Billings, who, as quondam “trained observer” of his troop, had noted the length of the telegram and the shortness of the allowance therefor.