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“There’s a lot in what you say, Stacey,” said Jimmy Prout. “We’ve enough enemies without adding to them unnecessarily. I’m all for the school teachers myself.”

As for Mr. Carroll, he had sat silently gnawing at his gray moustache during Stacey’s discourse, and he remained, now that it was over, still appearing to reflect upon it. But at the sound of a sharp pop behind him he started, shook his head as though to rid himself of troubles, and watched the champagne being poured into his glass.

“Good!” he cried, with a smile that softened his firm handsome face, and rose to his feet. “Here’s to Stacey, D. S. O., D. S. C., and my son! Thank God, he back’s home again, with his duty accomplished!”

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The evening, pleasant as it was, left Stacey with a feeling of emptiness. When he had finally said good night to his father and gone upstairs to his own study he wandered about it restlessly, smoking cigarettes and staring blankly at one after another of the objects with which he had once affectionately filled it. Everything and every one, he said to himself, were just the same—or almost. It was inconceivable. He had gone through something that had destroyed every particle of his former self, and now he came back to just what he had left. Not, he reflected, that he wanted his people changed, certainly not in the way he was changed—whatever that was. What the devil did he want?