"Eric Bethune, our C.O. I thought that would surprise you! I never knew myself until a few months ago. Uncle Alan told me. The Colonel has always been rather heavily down on me—I never knew why—and one day when I was more than usually fed up with things in general, having just been informed by my commanding officer that I was not fit to hold the King’s Commission, old Uncle Alan told me all about it. He explained that the Colonel didn’t really think me a dud soldier; he was only peeved at not being my father. Fancy disliking a fellow for that! It’s a queer world!" Queer indeed! Marjorie, better informed than Roy, mused upon the diabolical trick of fate which had caused a man to be baulked of the only thing that really matters by two successive generations—first by the father, then by the son. For the first time she felt a genuine pang of pity for Eric Bethune. But it passed, in a flash. Eric was "heavily down on" Roy—her Roy! All her generous soul revolted at the pettiness of such a revenge. "I often wondered," continued Roy, "why my mother broke it off. I don’t believe Uncle Alan knew. Why was it, do you think?" "I don’t know," said Marjorie. But she did. Five minutes later they arrived at the theatre where the musical comedy—or musical tragedy: you never know—of their choice was in progress. The vestibule was deserted, but Roy held open the swing door and ushered Marjorie into the darkened auditorium. A blast of hot air and a concerted feminine screech greeted them. "The curtain’s up," said Roy. "Come along! Our seats are in the back row, on the gangway. Rotten, but convenient!" They slipped unostentatiously into their places. The company were massed upon the stage; the orchestra was in full cry; the young persons of the Chorus were in a state of unwonted animation. In the centre, a lady of ravishing beauty was melting into the arms of a distinguished-looking individual just over military age. Humourists supported either flank. "This is going to be some show!" announced Roy, groping for Marjorie’s hand, and surveying the chorus with all the appreciation of a Robinson Crusoe of six months’ standing. "I shouldn’t mind being Adjutant of _that_ battalion! Not that any of them could walk down the same street with you! Hallo, hallo! What’s all this? The interval! We must have come in late." The curtain fell, and the audience, with one accord, rose to their feet and made for the doors. The band offered a hurried tribute to the Crown. Roy looked at his watch, and turned to Marjorie with a comical grimace. "Eleven o’clock!" he announced. "We must have sat over dinner a bit longer than we thought. The show’s over! Does it matter?" "Nothing in the world matters—this week!" said Marjorie, taking his arm. *CHAPTER XII* *TOM BIRNIE* *I* Roy was duly despatched to Scotland the following morning.