"Oh, pray spare me a repetition of your father's platitudes--I've heard them often enough. I don't know much about the war, but all I've heard has set me against it. But never mind! And now, good-bye, my Spartan sweetheart." He extended his hand, sullenly and coldly. "Hush! And don't be hateful" Dora remonstrated. Then, she added, quickly: "It's more than ever necessary, Dick, now that you are going away, to keep our secret. You mustn't anger your grandfather." "Oh, yes, of course, we'll be discreet. And, if I'm killed--well, nobody will know of our engagement." "Dick, if you died on the field of battle, I should be proud to proclaim to all the world that--" She broke down and sobbed, in spite of some staring passers-by, who saw that there was a lover's quarrel in progress. "There's time enough to talk of my going when I am actually starting," said Dick haughtily, drawing himself up to his full height, and showing an obvious intention to depart in a huff. "Good-bye." "Dick! Don't leave me like that." He was gone; and he left behind him a very wretched girl. As she watched him striding along the walk, she wanted to call him back, and beg him to adhere to his previous decision to stay at home that she might have him always near. When he was out of sight, tears still blurred Dora's vision, and she bowed her head. A strange faintness came over her. She wanted him now. After all, he was her lover, her future husband; his place was by her side. It was folly to send him away into danger. Dora was the daughter of Colonel Dundas, a retired officer of considerable experience. At his club, he was the authority upon everything military. He fairly bristled with patriotism, and his views on the gradual departure of the service "to the dogs, sir," were well advertised, both in print and by word of mouth. "The army is not what it was, sir, and, if we're not careful, we sha'n't have any army at all, sir," was the burden of his platitudes; and his motherless daughter had listened reverently ever since she was born, and believed in him. He had taught her that every self-respecting, manly man should be a soldier. Dick Swinton's equivocal position as the son of a needy clergyman and the very uncertain heir to a great fortune, ruled him out of the reckoning as an eligible bachelor, compared with Jack Lorrimer, Ned Carnaby, Harry Bent, and Vivian Ormsby, all rich men. The miser so frequently advertised the fact that his grandson would not inherit a penny of his money that people had come to believe it, and they looked upon Dick with corresponding coolness. He surely must be a scamp to be spoken of as his own grandfather spoke of him; and, of course, wherever he went, women flung themselves at his head. The usual attraction of a good-looking, soft-eyed Adonis gained favor by the whispered suggestion that he was dangerous. But, in truth, Dick was only bored with women until he fell in love with Dora, and took the girl's heart by storm.