observed softly.

Marigold met my eye for a second and then looked rather sheepish.
I had heard of a certain wordy battle between him and a
Territorial Sergeant whom he had set out to teach. Marigold
encountered a cannonade of blasphemous profanity, new, up-to-date,
scientific, against which the time-worn expletives in use during
his service days were ineffectual. He was routed with heavy loss.

"This is a war of the young," I continued. "New men, new guns, new
notions. Even a new language," I insinuated.

"I wish 'em joy of their language," said Marigold. Then seeing
that I was mildly amusing myself at his expense, he asked me
stiffly if there was anything more that he could do for me, and on
my saying no, he replied "Thank you, sir," most correctly and left
the room.

On the 3d of March Betty Fairfax came to tea.

Of all the young women of Wellingsford she was my particular
favourite. She was so tall and straight, with a certain Rosalind
boyishness about her that made for charm. I am not yet, thank
goodness, one of the fossils who hold up horror-stricken hands at
the independent ways of the modern young woman. If it were not for
those same independent ways the mighty work that English women are
doing in this war would be left undone. Betty Fairfax was breezily
independent. She had a little money of her own and lived, when it
suited her, with a well-to-do and comfortable aunt. She was two
and twenty. I shall try to tell you more about her, as I go on.