“Mind you,” he said, “they’re wily fellows, these old Boers; we may not be up to their dirty tricks: I’m proud to say we aren’t. We shouldn’t be English if we were. But one thing, sir, you’ll see in the end, and that is that dogged British pluck will come through. You mark my words.” Edwin felt an overpowering impulse to say that dogged British pluck pretty obviously hadn’t come through at Colenso; but Edward Willis’s presence made him far too self-conscious to commit himself, and at the next station the traveller and his friend picked up their bags and departed, breathing the word “Buller” as if it were an incantation warranted to fortify and console. Edwin and Willis were alone. When their silence had become altogether too ridiculous, Edwin plucked up his courage and said, “Rotten thing this war.” “I don’t know,” said Willis. “It’s all right for my old man.” “What do you mean?” “Iron. . . . We’re chock full of Government work for South Africa: gun-carriages and rifle barrels. You’re doing medicine, aren’t you?” “Yes.” “Lucky devil. You’re learning to cure people, while I’m learning to make things to kill them.” He stared out of the window towards a patch of sky in which the glow of his father’s furnaces pulsated as though it registered the beatings of a savage, fiery heart, and relapsed into gloomy silence. The tunnel swallowed them, and in a moment they pulled up at Mawne Hall. Willis prepared to go. “I say,” he said, “we’re giving a dance next week—” and hesitated. “What for?” said Edwin, for want of something better. “I don’t know . . . unless it’s to celebrate the Colenso casualties. I believe you’re invited. I hope you’ll come.” “Thanks,” said Edwin. But Willis was gone. CHAPTER V ROMANCE I MR. INGLEBY wanted to know why he was so late. “I read a paper at the Literary Society,” he said, “and then went back to Alvaston with a man named Boyce. He’s a son of Arthur Boyce.” “The auctioneer?” asked Mr. Ingleby. “No . . . the poet.” Mr. Ingleby’s features showed a faint anxiety, as though he doubted if such an influence were healthy. “Well, I hope your paper was a success,” he said. “Oh, I think it went all right. Any letters?” “Yes . . . two. Here they are.” He handed them to Edwin. One of them was the invitation from Mawne. He showed it to his father. “A dance—” said Mr. Ingleby. “Yes. . . . I suppose I’d better go.” “Your Aunt Laura told me about it. If it won’t interfere with your work, I don’t see why you shouldn’t.” “I haven’t any proper clothes. Evening dress, you know” “I suppose that is quite necessary,” said Mr. Ingleby regretfully.