Her face changed--how my heart leaped to see it change!--and that took command there which will command trampling, even in the women of the camp, at news like this. ‘What luck that Bob couldn’t take his furlough!’ she exclaimed, single-thoughted. ‘But you have known this for hours’--there was even something of the Colonel’s wife, authority, incisiveness. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Ah--I see.’ I stood before her abashed, and that was ridiculous, while she measured me as if I presented in myself the woman I took her to be. ‘It wasn’t like that,’ she said. I had to defend myself. ‘Judy,’ I said, ‘if you weren’t in honour bound to Anna, how could I know that you would be in honour bound to the regiment? There was a train at three.’ ‘I beg to assure you that you have overcalculated,’ said Mrs. Harbottle. Her eyes were hard and proud. ‘And I am not sure’--a deep red swept over her face, a man’s blush--‘in the light of this I am not sure that I am not in honour bound to Anna.’ We had reached the veranda, and at her signal her coachman drove quickly up. ‘You have kept me here three hours when there was the whole of Bob’s kit to see to,’ she said, as she flung herself in; ‘you might have thought of that.’ It was a more than usually tedious campaign, and Colonel Robert Harbottle was ambushed and shot in a place where one must believe pure boredom induced him to take his men. The incident was relieved, the newspapers said--and they are seldom so clever in finding relief for such incidents--by the dash and courage shown by Lieutenant Chichele, who, in one of those feats which it has lately been the fashion to criticize, carried the mortally wounded body of his Colonel out of range at conspicuous risk of depriving the Queen of another officer. I helped Judy with her silent packing; she had forgiven me long before that; and she settled almost at once into the flat in Chelsea which has since been credited with so delightful an atmosphere, went back straight into her own world. I have always kept her first letters about it, always shall. For months after, while the expedition still raged after snipers and rifle-thieves, I discussed with Lady Chichele the probable outcome of it all. I have sometimes felt ashamed of leaping as straight as I did with Anna to what we thought the inevitable. I based no calculation on all Mrs. Harbottle had gone back to, just as I had based no calculation on her ten years’ companionship in arms when I kept her from the three o’clock train. This last was a retrospection in which Anna naturally could not join me; she never knew, poor dear, how fortunate as to its moment was the campaign she deplored, and nothing to this day can have disturbed her conviction that the bond she was at such magnificent pains to strengthen, held against the strain, as long, happily, as the supreme need existed. ‘How right you were!’ she often said. ‘She did, after all, love me best, dear, wonderful Judy!’ Her distress about poor