"Not quite, I hope," he replied in a dignified way. "When last you spoke to me about Phyllis Gedge, I really didn't know my own mind. I am not a cad and the thought of--of anything wrong never entered my head. On the other hand, marriage seemed out of the question." "I remember," said I, "you talked some blithering rot about her being a symbol." "I am quite willing to confess I was a fool," he admitted gracefully. "And I merited your strictures." His reversion to artificiality annoyed me. I'm far from being of an angelic disposition. "My dear boy," I cried. "Do, for God's sake, talk human English, and not the New Oxford Dictionary." He flushed angrily, snapped an impatient finger and thumb, and marched away to the gravel path. I sang out sharply: "Randall!" He turned. I cried: "Come here at once." He came with sullen reluctance. Afterwards I was rather tickled at realizing that the lame old war-dog had so much authority left. If he had gone defiantly off, I should have felt rather a fool. "My dear boy," I said, "I didn't mean to insult you. But can't a clever fellow like you understand that all the pretty frills and preciousness of a year ago are as dead as last year's Brussels sprouts? We're up against elemental things and can only get at them with elemental ideas expressed in elemental language." "I'd have you to know," said Randall, "that I spoke classical English." "Quite so," said I. "But the men of to-day speak Saxon English, Cockney English, slang English, any damned sort of English that is virile and spontaneous. As I say, you're a clever fellow. Can't you see my point? Speech is an index of mental attitude. I bet you what you like Phyllis Gedge would see it at once. Just imagine a subaltern at the front after a bad quarter of an hour with his Colonel--'I've merited your strictures, sir!' If there was a bomb handy, the Colonel would catch it up and slay him on the spot." "But I don't happen to be at the front, Major," said Randall. "Then you damned well ought to be," said I, in sudden wrath. I couldn't help it. He asked for it. He got it. He went away, mounted his motor bicycle, and rode off. I was sorry. The boy evidently was in a chastened mood. If I had handled him gently and diplomatically, I might have done something with him. I suppose I'm an irritable, nasty-tempered beast. It is easy to lay the blame on my helpless legs. It isn't my legs. I've conquered my damned legs. It isn't my legs. Its ME. I was ashamed of myself. And when, later, Marigold enquired whether the doors were still shut against Mr. Holmes, I asked him what the blazes he meant by not minding his own business. And Marigold said: "Very good, sir." CHAPTER IX