Beaumaroy, standing on the hearthrug apparently in a state of some
agitation.

The envious years had refused to Major-General Punnit, C.B.--he was a
distant cousin of Mrs. Naylor's--the privilege of serving his country in
the Great War. His career had lain mainly in India and was mostly behind
him even at the date of the South African War, in which, however, he had
done valuable work in one of the supply services. He as short, stout,
honest, brave, shrewd, obstinate, and as full of prejudices, religious,
political and personal as an egg is of meat. And all this time he had
been slowly and painfully recalling what his young friend Colonel Merman
(the Colonel was young only relatively to the General) had told him
about Hector Beaumaroy. The name had struck on his memory the moment the
Rector pronounced it, but it had taken him a long while to "place it"
accurately. However, now he had it pat; the conversation in the club came
back. He retailed it now to the company at Old Place.

A pleasant fellow, Beaumaroy; socially a very agreeable fellow. And as
for courage, as brave as you like. Indeed he might have had letters after
his name save for the fact that he--the Colonel--would never recommend a
man unless his discipline was as good as his leading, and his conduct at
the base as praiseworthy as at the front. (Alec Naylor nodded his
handsome head in grave approval; his father looked a little discontented,
as though he were swallowing unpalatable, though wholesome, food). His
whole idea--Beaumaroy's, that is--was to shield offenders, to prevent
the punishment fitting the crime, even to console and countenance the
wrongdoer. No sense of discipline, no moral sense, the Colonel had gone
as far as that. Impossible to promote or to recommend for reward, almost
impossible to keep. Of course, if he had been caught young and put
through the mill, it might have been different. "It _might_" the Colonel