Macnair started, and his face looked rather a queer colour in the dim light. ‘Great heavens, Mark! Talk of explosives!’ For the moment he could get no further, and Mark was puzzled. ‘You mean—it’s never occurred to you?’ ‘I mean nothing of the sort.’ ‘Then I bet you _do_ want to bite my head off⸺’ ‘I’m not ... so sure,’ he said slowly. His voice was more natural now. ‘I always like your sledge-hammer directness. At the same time⸺’ He rose and paced the length of the room, revolving that amazing proposition. ‘If I thought there was a ghost of a chance,’ Mark persisted, as Keith turned in his stride, ‘it would take a ton weight off my mind.’ ‘Not to mention mine,’ Keith answered smiling; and when he reached the window he put a hand on Mark’s shoulder. ‘As it seems a case of plain speaking to-night, I may as well admit the truth. She’s been the star of my life for fifteen years—and I’d give all I possess to marry her.’ Mark’s eyebrows went up. ‘And she ten years a widow! Why not have a shot at it, old chap, and make this Boulogne trip a sort of war honeymoon⸺’ ‘My dear boy! The pace you young fellows travel! And you ignore ... there’s Helen herself to be reckoned with⸺’ For the first time in his life Mark saw the blood mount into Keith’s face and heard him hesitate over his mother’s name—phenomena that checked his fluency a little but rather increased his zeal. ‘Well, if you don’t have a try,’ he said, ‘hanged if the C.O. won’t forestall you. He’s dead smitten. Two lovers at fifty—she ought to be ashamed of herself!’ But Keith seemed no way perturbed by the possibility of a rival. ‘_If_ she ever marries again,’ he said quietly, ‘it will be myself. But, Mark, is it possible you’ve never realised that, for her, your father is still as much alive as when he walked this earth? There’s a modest percentage of human beings so made, and a good few of them are Scots. For them there is actually neither death, nor separation. I believe your father still bars my way, as much as he did when—I first loved her. Of course ... I may exaggerate!’ ‘Hope you do!’ Mark was deeply moved. ‘She doesn’t often speak of him to me.’ ‘Nor to me. But—when she does, it’s quite clear.’ ‘’M. Rough luck. All the same, if the worst happens, give me your word you’ll have a try ... for her sake and mine as well as your own. No one would dream there’s ten years between you.’ Keith simply held out his hand and Mark’s closed on it hard. The good understanding that had always existed between them was complete. Mark found his mother writing letters in bed. He had accused her more than once of writing them in her bath. She looked strained and tired, as Keith said; but in her blue dressing-jacket, with hair demurely parted and a thick plait over her shoulder, she appeared younger, if anything, than the man he had left downstairs. ‘Incurable woman!’ he said lightly. ‘Who’s your victim this time?’