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The flow of George Godden’s words stopped as suddenly us it had begun. Sucking his cold pipe, Rockingham brooded for a moment. A common enough story, except for the single circumstance. Only—could one believe that part of the story? A man in love was not apt to be so ... scrupulous. He and Gail now ...

Memory of Gail brought a faint flush to his cheeks.

“Angry?” Godden asked himself. “I don’t see why he should be. His class is always having divorces.”

Aloud he said, “I don’t think there’s anything more I can tell you, sir. Not for the present anyway.”

“Naming no names”, thought the battery commander. “Like his uncle. Decent of him. Easy enough to find out, though. Only got to stroll over to brigade office. Can’t be many sergeants on special courses.” And he brooded on for a moment before asking:

“You’ve quite made up your minds? Both of you?”

“Yes, sir.” But the lids flickered, just once, over those steady gray-blue eyes.

“You’re sure about that?”

“Yes, sir.” Again a flicker of the eyelids betrayed uncertainty. “Only——”

“Only—what?”

Godden hesitated. Rockingham saw that the fingers of his right hand were working.

“Go on”, he prompted. “We’re talking as man to man, you know.”

“Well, sir”—speech came at last—“we’re not quite certain about him, sir. Supposing he cuts up rough and refuses to divorce her. The ... the lawyer I went to said he’d be within his rights if he did that, and that if she ran away he could keep the baby. Do you think he’s right, sir? The lawyer, I mean. It doesn’t seem quite fair—to us. After all, it’s her baby. She’s always done everything for it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about the law, Godden.”

“No, sir. Of course not, sir.” And silence had them again while trumpets outside sounded “Stables”.

Willy nilly, then, Rockingham smiled; and after a second or so, Godden had to smile too.

“It does seem funny, sir”, he ventured, “now that we’ve sent our horses away. Perhaps I ought to be getting back to my ... my machines, sir.”

“No. Wait.” And once more silence held them, while—once more—the Hawk’s prognostications troubled Rockingham’s mind.

A good soldier this. He’d be needed—if it came to a war.

“There’s one point you haven’t either of you considered”, he began. “It’s all very well to say you want to re-engage, Godden. But supposing the C.O. refuses to sign your form? He could, you know—if there was any scandal. At least I think so. Let’s see what King’s Regulations have to say about that, shall we?”

The book lay close to his hand. Playing for time, he opened it at the index. The other watched him, thinking, “That wouldn’t be fair either. It’s none of their business what I do with my private life. Why shouldn’t Edie and I be happy?”

Yet would one be quite happy? Out of the regiment? Away from all one’s pals?

The questions—asked for the first time—troubled the essentially simple mind of George Godden. His cheeks, too, flushed as he remembered something he had said to Edie, only yesterday evening.

“There’s bound to be a bit of a fuss”, he had said. “But once I’m transferred to another brigade, it’ll soon blow over. Warrant officer, class one—that’s what I’ve always meant to be. And that’s what I’m going to be before I’m finished.”

But supposing the C.O. wouldn’t sign his form?

His battery commander was speaking again.

“Yes”, he heard. “That’s quite right. But of course I’ll do my best for you. Your work as a soldier has always been good. Your certificates will be all in your favour. Still, there is the question of ... character. And, Godden——”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take the advice of a man a good deal older than yourself. Don’t rush your fences. Don’t put in your form till you’ve absolutely made up your mind about ... the other thing.”

“But how can I, sir? Unless I know whether I’m to be re-engaged.”

The sheer simplicity of the man made Rockingham stare.

“I’d rather you spoke to the colonel right away, sir”, Godden went on. “We’d both know where we stood then. In a way, I suppose, it’d be easier if I didn’t re-engage. Still——”

“You’d rather not leave the regiment?”

“I should just hate to do that.” For the first time since the man had entered the room no “sir” punctuated his heartfelt phrases. “Father was a gunner. And grandfather, too. Grandfather died of enteric in South Africa, and father was killed in France, just before the Armistice. But it’s not only because of them that I want to go on serving. It’s because ...”

For the last time, he hesitated; then, without any prompting, he continued:

“As far as I can see—and Uncle Leo agrees with me—there’s bound to be another European war before we’re very much older, and I shouldn’t like having to rejoin as a reservist”.

Two minutes after which, with a final, “Then you will speak to the colonel, sir? Thank you very much indeed, sir”, a lance-sergeant of gunners whose face might have been modelled by Phidias had clicked heels, had saluted, and was gone.