“A very fine fellow,” Mr. Fentolin repeated. “I am not so sure about the army, Gerald. You see, there are some people who say, like your American friend, that we are even now almost on the brink of war.” “All the more reason for me to hurry,” the boy begged. Mr. Fentolin closed his eyes. “Don’t!” he insisted. “Have you ever stopped to think what war means--the war you speak of so lightly? The suffering, the misery of it! All the pageantry and music and heroism in front; and behind, a blackened world, a trail of writhing corpses, a world of weeping women for whom the sun shall never rise again. Ugh! An ugly thing war, Gerald. I am not sure that you are not better at home here. Why not practise golf a little more assiduously? I see from the local paper that you are still playing at two handicap. Now with your physique, I should have thought you would have been a scratch player long before now.” “I play cricket, sir,” the boy reminded him, a little impatiently, “and, after all, there are other things in the world besides games.” Mr. Fentolin’s long finger shot suddenly out. He was leaning a little from his chair. His expression of gentle immobility had passed away. His face was stern, almost stony. “You have spoken the truth, Gerald,” he said. “There are other things in the world besides games. There is the real, the tragical side of life, the duties one takes up, the obligations of honour. You have not forgotten, young man, the burden you carry?” The boy was paler, but he had drawn himself to his full height. “I have not forgotten, sir,” he answered bitterly. “Do I show any signs of forgetting? Haven’t I done your bidding year by year? Aren’t I here now to do it?” “Then do it!” Mr. Fentolin retorted sharply. “When I am ready for you to leave here, you shall leave. Until then, you are mine. Remember that. Ah! this is Doctor Sarson who comes, I believe. That must mean that it is five o’clock. Come in, Doctor. I am not engaged. You see, I am alone with my dear niece and nephew. We have been having a little pleasant conversation.” Doctor Sarson bowed to Esther, who scarcely glanced at him. He remained in the background, quietly waiting. “A very delightful little conversation,” Mr. Fentolin concluded. “I have been congratulating my nephew, Doctor, upon his wisdom in preferring the quiet country life down here to the wearisome routine of a profession. He escapes the embarrassing choice of a career by preferring to devote his life to my comfort. I shall not forget it. I shall not be ungrateful. I may have my faults, but I am not ungrateful. Run away now, both of you. Dear children you are, but one wearies, you know, of everything. I am going out. You see, the twilight is coming. The tide is changing. I am going down to meet the sea.”