He saw his mother lean forward; the waves of silver hair seemed to enshrine the beautiful lines of her drawn face; her voice came whispering: “Hadn’t we better leave it, Giles?... Perhaps he really did die for England?” The young man glanced at her quickly. He saw her aged and broken by the war. He thought of his brother.... Then he caught sight of his own face in the mirror, lean, youthful, vigorous. The old tag flashed through his mind: “They also serve who only stand and wait.” He thrust away that emotional expression, and in the manner of his kind stayed silent, rigid, with his back to the fire. And suddenly he said: “I say, mater, won’t you play me something? Chopin, or one of those Russian Johnnies you play so rippingly?” “OLD IRON” “OLD IRON” You know how the story goes, of course. Husband and wife just about to retire to bed. Wife yawns, husband knocks out his pipe on the grate and remarks: “Well, better turn in, I suppose.” Wife replies: “Yes”; then adds languidly: “I meant to call round to ask the Cartwrights to dinner on Thursday.” Husband, after prolonged pause: “I’ll pop round and ask them now, if you like. They never go to bed till very late.” “I wish you would, dear.” Husband pulls on a cloth cap and goes out. Wife yawns again, and picks up _The Ladies’ Boudoir_, and idly examines charmeuse gown, and notes the prices of gloves at Foxtrot’s & Fieldfern’s. Yawns again more audibly. Collects sewing and places it in work-basket. Takes the kitten out and locks it up in the scullery. Yawns, and walks languidly upstairs. Turns on the light and spends fifteen minutes examining face at various angles in the glass. Begins to disrobe. Thinks sleepily: “Tom’s a long time.” Brushes out her hair and admires it considerably. Conceives a new way of dressing it for future festivities. Disrobes farther. Yawns. Disrobes completely and re-robes—dressing-gown. “It’s too bad being all this time!” Vitality slightly stirred in the direction of resentment and a kind of mild apprehension. Lies on the bed and drowsily reviews the experiences of the day. Dreams.... Suddenly starts with a consciousness of cold. Gropes for her wrist-watch. _A quarter past one!_ Jumps from the bed, feeling the cold hand of fear on her heart. Runs downstairs and stares helplessly out of the front door. Pauses to consider a thousand possible eventualities. Returns to bedroom and completely re-robes, not forgetting to do her hair neatly and powder her nose. Puts on cloak and goes out. Cartwrights’ house all in darkness. Bangs on the front door and rings bell. Head of old Mr. Cartwright at first-floor window: “Who the devil’s that?” “It’s me. Where’s Tom?” “Tom! Haven’t seen him for weeks!” “Good God! Let me in.”