bowwows--count on England's bulldog grit. God help Germany when the
Allies get into that country!"

"When--ah, when?" echoed Sir Percival. "I hope that I live to see the
day. Tell me, boy," his voice softening, "how is it with you and Molly?"

His nephew reddened under his tan. "Molly doesn't care for a chap like
me," he muttered.

"Did she tell you so?"

"Well, no. You see, Uncle, it--eh--doesn't seem the thing to suggest
that a charming girl like Molly tie herself to a fellow who may get his
at any time."

"Piffle!" Sir Percival's shaggy eyebrows met in a frown. "Sentimental
nonsense! You and Molly were great chums a year ago. You told me yourself
that you hoped to marry her; I even spoke to her mother about the
suitability of the match."

"You had no right to," blazed his nephew. "It was damned impertinent
interference."

"You have not always thought so," retorted Sir Percival bitterly. "What
had that most impertinent American girl you met in Germany to do with
your change of front toward Molly?"

"I must insist that you speak more respectfully of Kathleen." John
Hargraves' expression altered. "If you must know, I asked Kathleen to
marry me and--she refused."