his body, for his life. At every waking hour his inner cry had been
even as David's, "Would God I had died for thee, my son, my son!" For at
every moment of those four years it might be that his son was even then
dead. That terror, endured under a cool and almost off-hand demeanor,
was past; but he feared for his son still. Of all who went to the war as
Crusaders, none had the temperament more ardently than Alec. As he went,
so, obviously, he had come back, not disillusioned, nay, with all his
illusions, or delusions, about this wicked world and its possibilities,
about the people who dwell in it and their lamentable limitations,
stronger in his mind than ever. How could he get through life without
being too sorely hurt and wounded, without being cut to the very quick
by his inevitable discoveries? Old Naylor did not see how it was to be
done, or even hoped for; but the right kind of wife was unquestionably
the best chance.

He had cast a speculative eye on Cynthia Walford, Irechester had caught
him at it, but, as he observed her more, she did not altogether satisfy
him. Alec needed someone more stable, stronger, someone in a sense
protective; somebody more like Mary Arkroyd; that idea passed through his
thoughts; if only Mary would take the trouble to dress herself, remember
that she was, or might be made, an attractive young woman; and, yes,
throw her mortar and pestle out of the window without, however,
discarding with them the sturdy, sane, balanced qualities of mind which
enabled her to handle them with such admirable competence. But he soon
had to put this idea from him. His son's own impulse was to give, not to
seek, protection and support.

Of Cynthia's woeful experience Alec had spoken to his father once
only: "It makes me mad to think the fellow who did that wore a
British uniform!"