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Yet, if Stacey revealed no characteristic for which he may be loved, he did reveal one for which he may be admired:—self-control. For when his father asked him, almost shyly, about the action in which he had won his American decoration, Stacey told the story of it, quietly, artistically, handsomely, with even a smile on his lips, as one might tell the story of Thermopylæ or Bunker Hill, while all the time his eyes, that gazed off across his father’s shoulder, were seeing the unendurable picture of the real thing. It was an achievement.

When the tale was finished the older man drew a long breath. “By Jove!” he exclaimed in a low voice, mingled admiration and envy showing in his face. “To live through moments like those! Wonderful! Moments you’ll never forget!”

But Stacey, who had risen and was leaning against the empty fire-place, gave an odd sound like a strangled laugh. He crossed the room to a tall window, flung it wide open, and surreptitiously wiped a drop of perspiration from his forehead. Then he turned back.