Dalroy swallowed whole some article of food, and Irene blushed scarlet. But "father" had said the thing, and "mother" had smiled, so Dalroy, whose wildest dreams hitherto had dwelt on marriage at the close of the war as a remote possibility, bestirred himself like a good soldier-man, rushing all fences at top speed. The brother in the Guards secured five days' leave, a wounded but exceedingly good-looking Bengal Lancer was empanelled as "best man" (to the joy and torment of the flapper, who pined during a whole week after his departure), and, almost before they well knew what was happening, Dalroy and his bride found themselves speeding toward Devon in a fine car on their honeymoon. "And why not?" growled the Earl, striving to comfort his wife when she wept a little at the thought that her beautiful daughter, her eldest-born, would henceforth have a nest of her own. "Dash it all, Mollie, they'll only be young once, and this rotten war looks like lasting a decade! Had we searched the British Isles we couldn't have found a better mate for our girl. He's just the sort of chap who will worship Irene all his life, and he has in him the makings of a future commander-in-chief, or I'm a Dutchman!" As his lordship is certainly not a Dutchman, but unmistakably English, aristocratic, and county, it is permissible to hope that his prophecy may be fulfilled. Let us hope, too, if Dalroy ever leads the armed manhood of Britain, it will be a cohort formed to render aggressive war impossible. That, at least, is no idle dream. It should be the sure and only outcome of the world's greatest agony. THE END TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent.