The Yellow Dove. Gibbs George

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      “It’s true. Father’s fitting out an ambulance corps and has promised to let me go.”

      John Rizzio, tall, urbane, dark and cynical, who had joined them, heard her last words and broke into a shrug.

      “It’s the khaki, Hammersley. The women will follow it to the ends of the earth. Broadcloth and tweeds are not the fashion.” He ran his arm through Hammersley’s. “There’s nothing for you and me but to volunteer.”

      The Honorable Cyril only stared at him blankly.

      “Haw!” he said, which, as Lady Betty once expressed it, was half the note of a jackass.

      Here the Kipshavens arrived and their hostess signaled the advance upon the dinner-table.

      One of the secrets of the success of Lady Heathcote’s dinners was the size and shape of her table, which seated no more than ten and was round. Her centerpieces were flat and her candelabra low so that any person at the table could see and converse with anyone else. It was thus possible delicately to remind those who insisted on completely appropriating their dinner partners that private matters could be much more safely discussed in the many corners of the house designed for the purpose. Doris sat between Rizzio and Byfield, Hammersley with Lady Joyliffe just opposite, and when Rizzio announced the American girl’s decision to go to France as soon as her training was completed she became the immediate center of interest.

      “That’s neutrality of the right sort,” said Kipshaven heartily. “I wish all of your countrymen felt as you do.”

      “I think most of them do,” replied Doris, smiling slowly, “but you know, you haven’t always been nice to us. There have been many times when we felt that as an older brother you treated us rather shabbily. I’m heaping coals of fire, you see.”

      “Touché!” said Rizzio, with a laugh.

      “I bare my head,” said the Earl.

      “Ashes to ashes,” from Lady Joyliffe.

      Kipshaven smiled. “Once in England gray hairs were venerated, even among the frivolous. Now,” he sighed, “they are only a reproach. Peccavi. Forgive me. I wish I could set the clock back.”

      “You’d go?” asked Doris.

      “Tomorrow,” said the old Earl with enthusiasm.

      Miss Mather glanced at Hammersley who was enjoying his soup, a purée he liked particularly.

      “But isn’t there something you could do?”

      “Yes. Write, for America—for Italy—for Sweden and Holland—for Spain. It’s something, but it isn’t enough. My fingers are itching for a sword.”

      The Honorable Cyril looked up.

      “Pen mightier than sword,” he quoted vacuously, and went on with his soup.

      “You don’t really mean that, Hammersley,” said Kipshaven amid smiles.

      “Well rather,” drawled the other. “All silly rot—fightin’. What’s the use. Spoiled my boar-shootin’ in Hesse-Nassau—no season at Carlsbad—no season anywhere—everything the same—winter—summer–”

      “You wouldn’t think so if you were in the trenches, my boy,” laughed Byfield.

      “Beastly happy I’m not,” said Hammersley. “Don’t mind shootin’ pheasant or boar. Bad form—shootin’ men—not the sportin’ thing, you know—pottin’ a bird on the ground—’specially Germans.”

      “Boches!” said Lady Betty contemptuously. She was inclined to be intolerant. For her Algy had already been mentioned in dispatches. “I don’t understand you, Cyril.”

      Hammersley regarded her gravely while Constance Joyliffe took up his cudgels.

      “You forget Cyril’s four years at Heidelberg.”

      “No I don’t,” said their hostess warmly, “and I could almost believe Cyril had German sympathies.”

      “I have, you know,” said Hammersley calmly, sniffing at the rim of his wineglass.

      “This is hardly the time to confess it,” said Kipshaven dryly.

      Doris sat silent, aware of a deep humiliation which seemed to envelop them both.

      Rizzio laughed and produced a clipping from Punch. “Hammersley is merely stoically peaceful. Listen.” And he read:

      “I was playing golf one day when the Germans landed

      All our troops had run away and all our ships were stranded

      And the thought of England’s shame nearly put me off my game.”

      Amid the laughter the Honorable Cyril straightened.

      “Silly stuff, that,” he said quite seriously, “to put a fellow off his game.” And turning to Lady Joyliffe: “Punch a bit brackish lately. What?”

      “Cyril, you’re insular,” from Lady Heathcote.

      “No, insulated,” said Doris with a flash of the eyes.

      Rizzio laughed. “Highly potential but—er—not dangerous. Why should he be? He’s your typical Briton—sport-loving, calm and nerveless in the most exacting situations—I was at Lords, you know, when Hammersley made that winning run for Marylebone—two minutes to play. Every bowler they put up–”

      “It’s hardly a time for bats,” put in Kipshaven dryly. “What we need is fast bowlers—with rifles.”

      The object of these remarks sat serenely, smiling blandly around the table, but made no reply. In the pause that followed Sandys was heard in a half whisper to Byfield.

      “What’s this I hear of a leak at the War Office?”

      Captain Byfield glanced down the table. “Have you heard that?”

      “Yes. At the club.”

      Captain Byfield touched the rim of his glass to his lips.

      “I’ve heard nothing of it.”

      “What?” from a chorus.

      “Information is getting out somewhere. I violate no confidences in telling you. The War Office is perturbed.”

      “How terrible!” said Lady Joyliffe. “And don’t they suspect?”

      “That’s the worst of it. The Germans got wind of some of Lord Kitchener’s plans and some of the Admiralty’s—which nobody knew but those very near the men at the top.”

      “A spy in that circle—unbelievable,” said Kipshaven.

      “My authority is a man of importance. Fortunately no damage has been done. The story goes that we’re issuing false statements in certain channels to mislead the enemy and find the culprit.”

      “But how does the news reach the Germans?” asked Rizzio.

      “No СКАЧАТЬ