My friend waited until the last echo died away, then faced me. “You never saw Hugh, my second son? He had already entered the navy when we went to Hong-Kong.” Her voice was carefully emotionless and clear. “Our place on the navy lists is vacant. Hugh went down in the ‘Invincible’ during the Jutland battle,” she said, then added, “Our boys commence their naval training very early. Hugh was such a wee lad when he said good-by ... and now--” Her voice lowered to a whisper--“Sometimes, in my dreams, I see the horror and confusion of that sinking ship ... the greedy rush of the gray waters--” She regained her composure. “Curious things, dreams?” she inquired conversationally. I gasped. “My dear! Why didn’t you tell me--instead of letting me blunder on? Are Jeffrey and Wallace too old to begin a naval career? But of course they are,” I floundered on. Daphne had wandered back to us. “I’ll have some more tea,” she said. “Three cups, Daphne!” I chided, glad of the interruption. “You really shouldn’t drink so much strong tea, Daphne,” her mother admonished absently. To my amazement Daphne struck the table violently with her clenched fist. “Tea!” she demanded. Her mother, without comment, poured it out. “How Daphne has changed--and her mother, too! She used to be so severe with her children about any lack of courtesy,” I thought. My friend broke the silence. “Do you remember Mrs. Gordon, whose husband was on the ‘Tamar’ at Hong-Kong?” I nodded. “Commander Gordon was with the ships that went down off your South American coast,” she said. “For some time we thought that he was lost; but later the news came. He had been rescued. Mrs. Gordon was so splendid through it all! Her happiness has been the one warming thing.... Do you know, I don’t believe that some of our women will really realize the bitterness of their loss until they see other women’s husbands and sons coming home.” “I’m so glad for Mrs. Gordon,” I said, remembering the tall commander and his gentle, pretty wife. * * * * * My friend made no comment. A little silence fell. Across the peaceful old garden some rooks, homeward bound, called from the oaks; the bitter tonic scent of chrysanthemums and box lingered in the still air. It was so quiet that we could hear the organ and choir commencing vespers at the cathedral. War, its agonies, tortures, and despair were mere unmeaning words--transparent nightmares of speech, illusive as dreams against the background of this noble, serene, and tangible English landscape, which breathed of centuries of peace. I sighed with thankfulness for my friend; in spite of her sailor son’s death, her world seemed full of the promise of happiness in the advancing years. Then I glanced at my watch and saw that my visit was nearly over. “Do you think that your war-working pony will consent to another trip to the depot--or shall I walk?” I asked.