“I think most of them do,” replied Doris, smiling slowly, “but you know, you haven’t always been nice to us. There have been many times when we felt that as an older brother you treated us rather shabbily. I’m heaping coals of fire, you see.” “_Touché!_” said Rizzio, with a laugh. “I bare my head,” said the Earl. “Ashes to ashes,” from Lady Joyliffe. Kipshaven smiled. “Once in England gray hairs were venerated, even among the frivolous. Now,” he sighed, “they are only a reproach. _Peccavi._ Forgive me. I wish I could set the clock back.” “You’d go?” asked Doris. “Tomorrow,” said the old Earl with enthusiasm. Miss Mather glanced at Hammersley who was enjoying his soup, a purée he liked particularly. “But isn’t there something you could do?” “Yes. Write, for America--for Italy--for Sweden and Holland--for Spain. It’s something, but it isn’t enough. My fingers are itching for a sword.” The Honorable Cyril looked up. “Pen mightier than sword,” he quoted vacuously, and went on with his soup. “You don’t really mean that, Hammersley,” said Kipshaven amid smiles. “Well rather,” drawled the other. “All silly rot--fightin’. What’s the use. Spoiled my boar-shootin’ in Hesse-Nassau--no season at Carlsbad--no season anywhere--everything the same--winter--summer----” “You wouldn’t think so if you were in the trenches, my boy,” laughed Byfield. “Beastly happy I’m not,” said Hammersley. “Don’t mind shootin’ pheasant or boar. Bad form--shootin’ men--not the sportin’ thing, you know--pottin’ a bird on the ground--’specially Germans.” “_Boches!_” said Lady Betty contemptuously. She was inclined to be intolerant. For her Algy had already been mentioned in dispatches. “I don’t understand you, Cyril.” Hammersley regarded her gravely while Constance Joyliffe took up his cudgels. “You forget Cyril’s four years at Heidelberg.” “No I don’t,” said their hostess warmly, “and I could almost believe Cyril had German sympathies.” “I have, you know,” said Hammersley calmly, sniffing at the rim of his wineglass. “This is hardly the time to confess it,” said Kipshaven dryly. Doris sat silent, aware of a deep humiliation which seemed to envelop them both. Rizzio laughed and produced a clipping from _Punch_. “Hammersley is merely stoically peaceful. Listen.” And he read: “I was playing golf one day when the Germans landed All our troops had run away and all our ships were stranded And the thought of England’s shame nearly put me off my game.” Amid the laughter the Honorable Cyril straightened. “Silly stuff, that,” he said quite seriously, “to put a fellow off his game.” And turning to Lady Joyliffe: “_Punch_ a bit brackish lately. What?” “Cyril, you’re insular,” from Lady Heathcote. “No, insulated,” said Doris with a flash of the eyes.