For two or three days no news came. I spent as much time as I could with my old friend, seeking to comfort her. On the third morning it was announced in the papers that the King had been graciously pleased to confer the Victoria Cross on Lt. Colonel Leonard Boyce for conspicuous gallantry in action. It did not occur in a list of honours. It had a special paragraph all to itself. Such isolated announcements generally indicate immediate recognition of some splendid feat. I was thrilled by the news. It was a grand achievement to win through death to the greatest of all military rewards deliberately coveted. Here, as I had strange reason for knowing, was no sudden act of sublime valour. The final achievement was the result of months of heroic, almost suicidal daring. And it was repayment of a terrible debt, the whole extent of which I knew not, owed by the man to his tormented soul. I rang up Mrs. Boyce, who replied tremulously to my congratulations. Would I come over and lunch? I found a very proud and tearful old lady. She may not have known the difference between a platoon and a howitzer, and have conceived the woolliest notions of the nature of her son's command, but the Victoria Cross was a matter on which her ideas were both definite and correct. She had spent the morning at the telephone receiving calls of congratulation. A great sheaf of telegrams had arrived. Two or three of them were from the High and Mighty of the Military Hierarchy. She was in such a twitter of joy that she almost forgot her anxiety as to his wounds. "Do you think he knows? I telegraphed to him at once." "So did I." She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. "How long would it take for a telegram to reach him?" "You may be sure he has it by now," said I, "and it has given him a prodigious appetite for lunch." Her face clouded over. "That horrid tinned stuff. It's so dangerous. I remember once Mary's aunt--or was it Cook's aunt--one of them any way--nearly died of eating tinned lobster--ptomaine poisoning. I've always told Leonard not to touch it. "They don't give Colonels and V.C.s tinned lobster at Boulogne," I answered cheerfully. "He's living now on the fat of the land." "Let us hope so," she sighed dubiously. "It's no use my sending out things for him, as they always go wrong. Some time ago I sent him three brace of grouse and three brace of partridges. He didn't acknowledge them for weeks, and then he said they were most handy things to kill Germans with, but were an expensive form of ammunition. I don't quite know what he meant--but at any rate they were not eatable when they arrived. Poor fellow!" She sighed again. "If only I knew what was the matter with him." "It can't be much," I reassured her, "or you would have heard again. And this news will act like a sovereign remedy." She patted the back of my hand with her plump palm. "You're always so sympathetic and comforting."