Sir Geoffrey walked briskly, reflecting complacently upon his excellent physical condition. He might be slightly dazed in mind, but fit as a fiddle in body. An odd expression that! What constituted a "fit" fiddle? Obviously, an instrument tuned to the right pitch. He felt taut all over. What had kept him fit at an age when many men of his acquaintance were falling into the sere and yellow stage of life? Sport. To scrap sport filled him with apprehension. So far, sport in England went on as usual. When he visited Euston to make enquiries concerning Russians, he had seen many cheery-looking fellows on their way north, bent on slaying grouse and stags, reasonably convinced in their own simple minds that, Germans or no Germans, the world must wag on as before. Sir Geoffrey was not so optimistic. He knew much better. Already the supreme sacrifice of an only son had been demanded of him and made instantly. Other sacrifices bulked larger and larger in the immediate future. Standing in his fine hall, with the portraits of dead-and-gone Pomfrets looking down upon him, he had smelt anticipatingly the pungent odours of carbolic acid and iodoform. The stately saloon must be turned into a ward--! The mere thought was hateful, but he never flinched from it. Let the poor boys come! He would welcome them with courtesy and geniality. A Mandarin predicted a five-shilling-in-the-pound income tax! The Squire had responded generously to the Prince of Wales's Fund. The situation could be summed up in one all-embracing word--Hell! Little girls curtsied, small boys touched their caps, as the Autocrat of Nether-Applewhite passed them by with a kindly word and glance for each. He reflected: "The little 'uns are out of it, bless 'em!" He wondered whether respectful salutations would last his time. They were dear to him, outward and visible signs of the respect paid to Authority. Would they be scrapped? The Government had taken over the railroads. If the Labourites came into power, the land might be grabbed ruthlessly. Sir Geoffrey walked less briskly, as the possibility obtruded itself. He stopped first at Uncle's cottage. Mrs. Mucklow received him. Uncle, it appeared, was at work, thatching a dormer window, which exacted his particular skill. Yes, George, poor boy, had gone for a soldier. His father had insisted upon it. "Quite right," said the Squire heartily. Jane Mucklow sniffed. She dared not contradict the Squire, but a sour face betrayed her feelings. The Squire laid a sovereign on the mantelpiece, saying that it was for Uncle, with the donor's compliments. Jane thanked him, wondering whether the piece of gold could be despatched, surreptitiously, to George. Always, Uncle got credit for what more deserving individuals accomplished. An exasperating thought! A recital of her own aches and pains, however, provoked the promise of a bottle of port. Sir Geoffrey shook hands with his former cook on leaving, and said graciously: