“Of course he was wrong,” Major Woodgate said decisively. “Only half recovered from an illness, and undertaking such a tramp as that! Insane of him! but it’s the sort of insanity that one doesn’t get too much of in this world. No, Carey wasn’t fit for the march. Might have finished him off, poor boy. But Ivor was hardly better fit. He settled the point himself, and did it out and out, as he generally does. Why couldn’t they share the horse between them? Quixotic, of course, and one likes him all the better for it. He—in fact, Ivor is a dear fellow. How is he this morning? Done for? I expected as much. Where are you off to now?” Roy had had twelve o’clock lunch with the Woodgates, finding himself at some distance from home, with his task not accomplished. He was by this time much excited, and rather off his balance. The Curtises came next, last on his round. He hunted out the rooms in which they had taken refuge, and again heard a good deal about Denham, besides much as to their own doings during the last few months. “I say, I don’t think you’ve got into very nice quarters,” he said, surveying the walls. “Best we can afford, old man. By-and-by we hope to change. I want to start painting again, and one must have a good light. Got a capital idea in my mind.” “You won’t take the trouble to copy that, anyhow,” remarked Roy, pointing at a good-sized plaster bust of Napoleon, which stood on the mantel-piece. “I wouldn’t keep the wretched thing there, if I were you.” “My dear boy, it’s from no sort of devotion to the original, I assure you. But what’s to be done? Our landlady is a flaring red-hot Bonapartist. Gushed about him for an hour this morning to my wife—didn’t she, dear?” “I told her politely that I should like him better, if he would kindly allow us to go home,” added Mrs. Curtis. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t suit her views, if we got rid of the Emperor, and put King George instead. Take care, Roy. Look out.” Roy was standing by the table, on which lay a little heap of wood-chips. Curtis always had something in hand—either painting or moulding or carving. If no other occupation presented itself, he would content himself with whittling a piece of wood into scraps; and apparently this had been his last occupation. Roy took up a chip, aimed carefully at the bust, and flung it. “Missed, by half-an-inch! I’ll try again. That’s right. Hit him fair and square on the nose. Now you, Curtis. See if you can beat that.” “You’ll break something, I’m sure,” objected Mrs. Curtis. “And then we shall have to pay for it.” “All right. I’ll pay. Now your turn. Whew! another miss. I’m getting out of practice. That’s it! Nose again.”