his chin between thumb and forefinger.

"So is the hospital train," said Lady Fenimore.

What an idiot I was to suggest these alternatives! I looked at my
watch. It was getting late. Hosea, like a silly child, is afraid
of the dark. He just stands still and shivers at the night, and
the more he is belaboured the more he shivers, standing stock-
still with ears thrown back and front legs thrown forward. As I
can't get out and pull, I'm at the mercy of Hosea. And he knows
it. Since the mount of Balaam, there was never such an intelligent
idiot of an ass.

"What do you say?" asked Sir Anthony. "Ambulance or train?"

"Donkey carriage," said I. "This very moment minute."

I left them and trotted away homewards.

Just as I had turned a bend of the chestnut avenue near the Park
gates, I came upon a couple of familiar figures--familiar, that is
to say, individually, but startlingly unfamiliar in conjunction.
They were a young man and girl, Randall Holmes and Phyllis Gedge.
Randall had concluded a distinguished undergraduate career at
Oxford last summer. He was a man of birth, position, and, to a
certain extent, of fortune. Phyllis Gedge was the daughter, the
pretty and attractive daughter, of Daniel Gedge, the socialistic
builder who did not hold with war. What did young Randall mean by
walking in the dark with his arm round Phyllis's waist? Of course
as soon as he heard the click-clack of Hosea's hoofs he whipped