An hour later Godfrey ran down the steps of the house in Belgrave Square, his head in a whirl. CHAPTER XXII BALTAZAR and Quong Ho were finishing lunch when Godfrey, flushed and excited, burst in with his news. An enthusiastically sympathetic parent failed to detect an unusual note, almost one of vainglory, in the boy’s speech and manner. He vaunted his success, proclaimed his entry on a brilliant career. He talked wildly. This to be a war to end war? A maudlin visionary’s dream. We might crush the Hun this time and have a sort of peace—a rotten politician’s peace, but the Hun would apply himself to the intensive cultivation of Hate, and in twenty years at the latest would have another go at Frightfulness. And that’s where the modern scientific soldier would come in. That was his career. He saw it all before him. And Baltazar, led away by the boy’s bright promise, clapped both his hands on his shoulders in a powerful grip, and cried: “I’m proud of you! My God, I’m proud of you! You and I will make our name famous again, as it was in the days of Admiral de Coligny. We’ll do things. We’ll make this rocking old Europe hum.” He laughed, and fire leaped into his eyes. “It’s good to be alive these days!” “It is. It’s glorious!” replied Godfrey. Quong Ho, smiling, urbane, approached with outstretched hand. “I hope I may be allowed to offer you my sincere congratulations,” said he. “Although I do not see eye to eye with you in your prognostication of a recrudescence of warfare after the pacification of this present upheaval, yet——” But Godfrey slapped him on the back, interrupting his eloquence. “That’s all right, you dear old image. When you get your Fellowship, I’ll say the same to you.” He cut a hunk from a cake on the table and poured out a whisky and soda. “My dear boy,” cried Baltazar, darting to the bell, “haven’t you lunched? You must have a proper meal.” Godfrey restrained him. No. He hadn’t time. He must leave London that afternoon, for a day or two, and the next two or three hours would be a mad rush. A shade of disappointment passed over Baltazar’s face. “I was hoping we might have a little dinner to-night to celebrate your appointment—just ourselves, with Marcelle—and Lady Edna, if she could come.” A smile flickered round Godfrey’s lips. “Dreadfully sorry, sir,” said he. “I’m not my own master. Anyhow, I know Lady Edna’s engaged. But my last night—yes, if you will. I’d love it.” As soon as he had bolted food and drink, he rushed out. He must throw some things into a bag, said he. Presently he returned and took hurried leave. Baltazar gripped him by the hand and God-blessed him. At the door Godfrey nodded to Quong Ho. “Just a word, old chap.” Quong Ho followed him into the hall. Baltazar went to the open dining-room window, and presently saw Godfrey clamber into his little two-seater. He waved a hand. “Good luck!” “See you on Friday, sir.”