She very lovingly talked to him. He all the time had an argument. He kept up his own case. He presently said, “And I do wish, mother, especially now I’m going into the army soon, I do wish you’d drop that ‘Huggo.’ You can’t tell how I hate it. You might just as well call me Baby. It’s a baby’s name.” “Oh, Huggo, it was the name we loved you by.” “Well, I can’t stick it. My name’s Hugh.” Strike on! There he is. He’s in the army. He’s utterly splendid in his uniform. How proud of him she is! They no longer gave commissions direct from civil life; but he’d been in the cadet corps at Tidborough and Harry was able to get him direct into an officer cadet battalion. He’s off to France in what seems next to no time. He’s home on leave and there’s nothing that’s too good for him and her purse at his disposal when he’s run through Harry’s generous allowance. He seems to get through an immense amount of money on leave. He’s never at home. He’s often out all night. Well, he’s on leave. He’s fighting for his country. You can’t be anything but utterly lenient with a boy that’s fighting for his country. He went back. Three days after he was supposed to have gone back Rosalie came face to face with him in Piccadilly. He was with some flapper type of girl, in the detestable phrase (as she thought it) by which the detestable products of the war (as she thought them) were called. He was just getting into a cab. She called out to him, astounded. She heard him swear and he jumped into the cab and was driven away. She didn’t tell Harry. Harry found out. It came out that the boy for overstaying his leave was to be court-martialled. She did not know what Harry did. She noticed in those days what a beaten look Harry’s face was getting. It was, of course, the war strain; but it only was first evident to her in that time of the court-martial. He scarcely spoke to her. She did not know what he did, but she knew he had much influence and exerted it at no sparing of himself. The boy got off with a severe reprimand and was returned to France. And to be in France, out there, in that ever-present shadow of death, was to be excused everything and to be forgiven everything.