“D’YOU mind if I smoke, Mother?”

The lady at the tea table looked mutely at her lord.

Josiah nodded graciously. “Do as you like, gel.”

Sally produced a wisp of paper and a very masculine tobacco pouch and began rolling a cigarette in an extremely competent manner. Josiah proffered a box of Egyptian but Sally preferred her own and struck a match on the sole of her shoe in a fashion at once so accomplished and so boylike as to take away the breath of her mother and Aunt Gerty.

As she sat talking easily and yet gravely to the Corporal with her long straight legs and trim ankles freely displayed by a surprisingly short khaki skirt she looked more like a boy than ever. And such was the thought in the minds of the other three ladies, who agreed tacitly that the skirt and the cigarette and the astonishing freedom of pose were not quite maidenly. Still with those ribbons, and that clear deep voice and that wonderful eye she was fascinating. Even her father, who on principle declined to admire her Damnable Independence, was unable to resist the impact of a personality that was now world famous.

Gazing at her in stern astonishment he pointed to her abbreviated lower garment. “Excuse me, gel,” he said, “but do you mind telling us what you’ve got underneath?”

Sally deigned no reply in words, but stuck the cigarette in the corner of her mouth with unconscious grace and dexterously lifted her skirt. A decidedly workmanlike pair of knickerbockers was disclosed.

Josiah gasped.

The unconcerned Sally continued to talk with the Corporal, while the Mayor, half scandalized, struggled against a guffaw. “Things seem to be changing a bit, as you might say. Don’t you think so, Mother?”

Aunt Gerty took upon herself to answer, as she often did, for poor bewildered Maria. “I fully agree, Josiah.” She lowered her discreet voice. “But almost a pity ... almost a pity ... don’t you think?”

The Mayor pursed his lips. “Durned if I know what to think, Gert.” He scratched a dubious head. “Seems to me the Empire is not going to be short o’ man power for some little time to come, eh?”

“Still ... not ... quite ... maidenly ... Josiah.”

“Daresay you’re right.” The Mayor fought down his feelings. “Next chicken on the roost’ll be the hussy puttin’ up for parliament.”

“Bound to get in if she does,” Gerty sounded rather rueful. “There isn’t a constituency in England that wouldn’t jump at the chance of electing her just now.”

Josiah breathed hard while this obvious truth sank into his bones, but Mrs. Doctor assured Gerty that she was talking nonsense. Her father being frankly opposed to this pious opinion, Ethel appealed to her mother. Maria, alas, was in the position of a modest wether who has given birth to a superb young panther. She simply didn’t know what to think, and by forlornly folding her hands on her lap gave mute expression to her feelings.

At the best, however, it was a futile discussion as Gerty was quick to realize. She turned the talk adroitly into other channels. “This morning,” she said, “as I was walking along Queen’s Road I had quite a shock. I met a blind man being led by an old woman. And who do you think it was?”

Mrs. Doctor had no idea who it could be.

“It was Harold Nixey the architect. Such a pitiful object! Did you know, Josiah, that he is now quite blind?”

Josiah was aware of the fact.

“How sad, how very sad!” said Ethel. “And he has done so well, so wonderfully well, in France.”

Gerty considered it nothing less than a calamity—for an architect of all people. And for one who promised such great things.

Sally was apparently absorbed in talk with the Corporal, but she lifted her eyes quickly. “Blind, did you say? Harold Nixey?”

“Yes,” said Gerty. “Such a grievous thing.”

“Aye, it is that!” The voice of Josiah was heavy and somber.

Ethel hoped for his recovery.

Her father shook his head. “From what they tell me the sight is completely destroyed. I was with the lad yesterday.” It was clear from Josiah’s manner that he was moved by real feeling. “Wonderful pluck and cheerfulness. He knows he’ll never draw another elevation, but he pretends to that old mother of his that he’s going to get better—just to keep her going.”

“And you say, Father”—it was the slow precise voice of Sally—“that he can’t get better?”

“Not a dog’s chance from what Minyard the eye doctor tells me. It’s a gas those devils have been using.” The Mayor sighed. “He’s a good lad, is that. And he’d have gone far. Rose from nothing, as you might say, but in a year or two he’d have been at the top of the tree.” Josiah, whose gospel was “getting on,” again sighed heavily.

“I think I’ll go and see him, Father, if you’ll give me his address.” Again the slow, precise voice of Sally.

“Do. It’ll be a kindness. Number Fourteen, Torrington Avenue. The second turn on the right past the Brewery along Corfield Road. Pleased to have a visit from you, I’m sure. He talked about you a lot. His mother had read him the Tribune’s account of Thursday. He says he used to know you in London when he was studying at South Kensington.”

Under Sally’s deep tan the blood imperceptibly mounted. “Yes, I used to know him quite well.” She didn’t add that she had refused rather peremptorily to marry him.

“Well, go and see him, gel. A very good soldier they tell me—D.S.O. and M.C. with two bars.”

“Two bars, Josiah!” Gerty put up her glasses impressively.

“And earned ’em—they tell me. Come to think of it, it’s wonderful what some of these young chaps have done.”

“And some of the older ones, too, Josiah.” Gerty looked across at the Corporal who was toying pensively with a cigarette that had been pressed upon him.

“Aye, and some of the old uns, too!” The Mayor followed the glance of his sister-in-law with the eye of perfect candor. “And not been brought up to it, mark you. They tell me our B.B. is second to none in the British Army.”

The Corporal looked as if he would like to have confirmed the Mayor’s statement had he not remembered that professional etiquette required so delicate a topic to be left exclusively to civilians.

Sally and Ethel went after awhile, and Josiah led the Corporal across the hall to what he called “his snuggery,” wherein he considered his business affairs and the affairs of the City, and, although by no means a reading man, occasionally referred to the Encyclopedia Britannica and kindred works. He was at pains to dispose the Corporal in comfort near the fire and then gave him an excellent cigar and insisted on his smoking it.

At first little passed between them in the way of words. They smoked in silence, but the Corporal could not help thinking, as he delicately savored the best cigar he had ever held between his fingers, how much prosperity had improved “the Mester.” He was so much mellower, so much more generous than of yore. His outlook on the world was bigger altogether; the Corporal’s own outlook was larger also; somehow, he had not the heart to resist the peace overtures of his father-in-law.

Said Josiah at last, pointing to the Corporal’s leg: “A longish job, I expect.”

The doctors seemed to think it might be. Still it had got the turn now. It was beginning to mend.

“I’ve been wondering,” said the Mayor, “whether it mightn’t be possible to get you transferred to munitions. Johnson and Hartley are short o’ foremen. Pound a day to begin with. What do you say, my boy?”

The Corporal gazed into the fire without saying anything.

Said the Mayor, half apologetically, “You’re not so young as you were, you see. Forty-three, they tell me, is a bit long in the tooth for the trenches. And you’ve done your bit. Why not give some o’ the younger ones a chance?”

In silence the Corporal went on gazing into the fire.

“Anyhow it might be worth thinking over.”

The Corporal removed the cigar from his mouth and appeared laconically to agree that it might be worth thinking over. But the suggestion didn’t seem to fire him.

A deeper silence followed and then said the Mayor with a certain gruff abruptness which was a partial return to the old manner, “I’m thinking it’ll be a good thing for Melia to quit Love Lane. She’s not done so bad with the business lately, but it might be wise to sell it now. And she’ll be none the worse for a rest in country air. Happen I told you that back in the spring I bought that cottage up at Dibley that that artist chap—I forget his name for the moment—used to come and paint in. Rare situation—sandstone foundation—highest point in the county—see for miles from his studio at the end o’ the garden. Don’t quite know why I bought it except that it was going cheap. An old property—nobody seemed to fancy it—but the freehold is not going to get less in value if I’m a judge o’ such matters and the place is in pretty good condition. Suppose, my boy, you and Melia moved in there? Save me a caretaker, and some o’ the finest air in Europe comes down the valley of the Sharrow.”

The heart of the Corporal leaped at these amazing words, but his eyes were still fixed upon the fire.

“What was the name o’ that artist chap? A local man, but quite well up, they tell me.”

“Stanning, R.A.” Something hard and queer rose in the Corporal’s throat.

“That’s the jockey—Stanning, R.A. Now I remember ... a rare dust there was in the Council some years ago when the Art Committee bought one of his pictures for....” The Mayor drew heavily at his cigar ... “for ... dram it! I’m losing my memory....”

“A thousand guineas,” the Corporal whispered.

“Something like that. Something extortionate. I remember there was a proper dust when the Council got to know of it. All very well to encourage local talent, I remember saying, but a thousand guineas was money. Maxon the curator resigned.”

The Corporal kept his eyes on the fire.

With a rich chuckle the Mayor turned over the cigar in his mouth at the memory of old battles in the Council Chamber. “The fur flew for a bit, I can tell you. He wasn’t an R.A. at that time and the poor chap’s gone now so happen he’ll begin to rank as an old master. They tell me fabulous sums are paid for these old masters, so one o’ these days Stanning, R.A., may grow into money and the City’ll have a bargain after all. But I don’t pretend to understand such things myself. A brave man, anyway. Joined up with the B.B. at the beginning and was killed out yonder.”

The Corporal nodded but said nothing. The Mayor went on with his cigar. “I’m trying to remember the name of another artist chap who used to live in that cottage when I was a boy. We used to jang from school on fine afternoons in the summer and go bathing in Corfield Weir. And painting by the river was an old chap with a long beard like Tennyson—you’ve seen the picture of Tennyson”—Josiah pointed to a lithograph of the bard on the wall behind the Corporal—“but not quite so fierce looking. Wonderful blue eyes had that old feller ... lord love me, what did they call him!... I remember we used to throw stones at his easel. We got one right through it once, when he had nearly finished his picture and he had to begin all over again. What was the name of the old feller?” The Mayor fingered his cigar lovingly and looked into the fire. “Soft Billy ... that was it.... Soft Billy.” Josiah sighed gently. “Poor, harmless old boy. I can see those blue eyes now.”

The Mayor drew gently at his cigar while the Corporal kept his eyes on the fire. “That reminds me.... I’ve got one of the old chap’s pictures, somewhere.” The Mayor laughed softly to himself. “Took it for a bad debt ... quite a small thing ... wonder what’s become of it?” He grew pensive. “Must be up in the box room.” Suddenly he rose from his chair. “I’ll go and see if I can find it.”

The man of action went out of the room, leaving the Corporal in silent enjoyment of warmth, the tobacco and many reflections.

In a few minutes Josiah returned in triumph with a small piece of unframed canvas in his hand. He rang the bell for a duster, of which it was much in need, and when the duster had been duly applied he held the picture up to the light. “It wants a frame.” The tone was indulgent but casual. “Looks like Dibley Chase to me.” He handed the landscape to the Corporal who gazed at it with wistful eagerness.

“Dibley Chase was always a favorite pitch for these artist chaps. See the Sharrow gleaming between the trees?” Josiah traced with his finger the line of the river. “I like that bit o’ sun creeping down the valley. Good work in it, I daresay ... but I don’t pretend to be up in such matters. Very small but it may be worth a frame. Been up in the attic at Waterloo Villa for years ... aye, long before Waterloo Villa....” Josiah took a loving puff of his cigar. “I must have had that picture when I first went to the Duke o’ Wellington in March, ’79. How time gets on! Had it of that lame chap who used to keep the Corfield Arms who went up the spout finally. Used to supply him with beer. Gave me this for a barrel he couldn’t pay for.” The Mayor laughed richly and put on his spectacles. “Can you see the name o’ the artist? What was the name o’ that old Soft Billy ... ha, there it is.” The Mayor brought his thumb to bear on the right-hand corner. “‘J. Torrington, 1854’ ... a long time ago. John Torrington, that was his name ... some of his work grew in value, I’ve heard say. A harmless old man!”

The Mayor sighed a little and gave himself up to old memories while the Corporal held the picture in his hand. “Soft Jack ... aye, that was his name.... I can see him now with his white beard and long hair ... I’m speakin’ of fifty years ago. Soft Jack, yes ... had been a good painter so they said ... but an old man, then. Used to sit by the Weir painting the sun on the water. I’ve pitched many a stone at his easel ... in the summertime after bathing.”

The Corporal was too absorbed in the picture to heed the Mayor’s reminiscences. Josiah laughed softly at his thoughts and chose a second cigar. “Too small to be worth much,” he said. “But Melia might like it. She was always a one for pictures. We’ll pop a bit o’ the Tribune round it and she can stick it in the front parlor up at Dibley where the old boy lived and died.”

---