'Hullo! That line's wrong. Won't scan. Trusted to her memory, I
suppose. Didn't look it up. And yesterday I caught her out in her
accents. Women play the devil with accents. But she writes a pretty
Greek. Eh? What?' For he had become aware of the re-entry of
Levasseur, who was standing at his elbow.

''Fraid I can't stay now,' said that person. 'I've promised to pick
up some wounded at the station to-night.'

'You--wounded!--what do you mean?' said the Squire, turning upon
him.

Levasseur's large, thin-lipped mouth showed what seemed an habitual
grin.

'I'd been getting so unpopular, it was becoming a nuisance. Line of
least resistance, you understand. Now everybody's quite civil again.
And I like chauffing.'

'A mere bit of weakness!' grumbled the Squire. 'Either you keep out
of the war, or you go into it. You'd better go off to a camp now,
and get trained--and shot--as quickly as possible--get done with
it.'

'Oh no,' laughed the other. 'I'm all for middle courses. If they'll
let me go on with my book, I don't mind driving a few poor fellows
now and then!'

The Squire looked at him critically.