Mr. Fentolin's face was full of kindly sympathy.

"My dear fellow," he exclaimed, "I am selfish, indeed! I should not
have kept you here for a moment. You had better go and lie down."

"I'll go directly," Gerald promised. "Can I speak to you for one
moment first?"

"Speak to me," Mr. Fentolin repeated, a little wonderingly. "My
dear Gerald, is there ever a moment when I am not wholly at your
service?"

"That fellow Dunster, on the platform, the first moment I spoke to
him, made me feel like a cur," the boy said, with a sudden access
of vigour in his tone. "I told him I was on my way to a golf
tournament, and he pointed to the news about the war. Is it true,
uncle, that we may be at war at any moment?"

Mr. Fentolin sighed.

"A terrible reflection, my dear boy," he admitted softly, "but, alas!
the finger of probability points that way."

"Then what about me?" Gerald exclaimed. "I don't want to complain,
but listen. You dragged me home from a public school before I could
even join my cadet corps. You've kept me banging around here with
a tutor. You wouldn't let me go to the university. You've stopped
my entering either of the services. I am nineteen years old and
useless. Do you know what I should do to-morrow if war broke out?