the army,” Paul replied.

“Oh, yes,” said Colonel Vanderfelt, “but the Bar offers more opportunities to a young fellow nowadays, doesn’t it? Why the Army? There are other professions.”

“Not for me, sir.”

Colonel Vanderfelt shrugged his shoulders and stared at the shining table in front of him. It was a devil of a world—everything cross-wise and upside down and unaccommodating. Why must this youth with money and the world to choose from, choose just the one bunch of grapes quite out of his reach? And set his very heart on it too. There had been a ring in that “Not for me, sir!” which could not be stilled by argument. It was youth’s challenge to the elders, its “I know better” which there was no use in debating.

“Let me hear,” said Colonel Vanderfelt; and the lad’s ambitions were shyly revealed to him. Histories of campaigns, the lives of great soldiers, books of strategy too technical for him to follow—these had been his favourite reading. It was the actual work of the soldier which had fascinated Paul, not the glitter of the great days of parades and manœuvres, but his daily responsibilities and the command of men and the glory of service. Colonel Vanderfelt listened and nodded and remembered a phrase in Mr. Ferguson’s letter: “The boy’s of the right temper.” Surely he was, and the whole business was perverse and pitiful! He heard Paul closing his little apologia.

“So you see, sir, from the time when I began to think at all of what I should do in the world, this has always been my wish.” The lad was seeking to challenge and defy, but the anxiety which had tortured him during the last four days turned the challenge into a prayer. He searched Colonel Vanderfelt’s face for a sign of agreement. “I know of nothing,” he asserted, “of nothing at all which should hinder me from trying to fulfil my wish.”

“But I do,” replied the other. “I think, Paul, that it would be very difficult for you to take your father’s name and seek a commission in the Army here.”

Paul’s cigarette had gone out whilst he was speaking. He lit it now at one of the candles with trembling fingers. The gentleness of Colonel Vanderfelt’s voice made him think of some compassionate judge passing sentence.

“You will, I trust, make that clear to me,” he said.

“Of course,” returned the Colonel. “I admit to you that up to the last few minutes I had hoped to escape, and leave most of the 

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