on."

"May I read the letter when you've explained it?"

"Certainly not," said Celia firmly.

"I only want to make sure that it's an explanation and not an apology."

"I shall probably put it down to a bicycle accident. Which is that?—No, no," she added hastily, "Kamerad!"

I put down the revolver and went on with my packing. And a day or two later Celia began to write about the miniature.

The stars represent shells or months, or anything like that; not promotion. I came back with just the two—one on each sleeve.

We talked of many things, but not of the miniature. Somehow I had forgotten all about it. And then one day I remembered suddenly.

"The miniature," I said; "did you get it done?"

"Yes," said Celia quietly.

"Have you got it here?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I say, do let me see it."

Celia hesitated.

"I think we had better wait till you are a little stronger," she said very gently.

"Is it so very beautiful?"

"Well—"

"So beautiful that it almost hurts? Celia, dear, let me risk it," I pleaded.

She fetched it and gave it to me. I gazed at it a long time.

"Who is it?" I asked at last.

"I don't know, dear."

"Is it like anybody we know?"

"I think it's meant to be like you, darling," said Celia tenderly, trying to break it to me.

I gazed at it again.

"Would you get me a glass?" I asked her.

"A looking-glass, or with brandy and things in it?"

"Both ... Thank you. Promise me I don't look like this."

"You don't," she said soothingly.

"Then why didn't you tell the artist so and ask him to rub it out and do it again?"

Celia sighed.

"He has. The last was his third rubbige."

Then another thing struck me.

"I thought you weren't going to have it in uniform?"

"I didn't at first. But we've been trying it in different costumes since to—to ease the face a little. It looked awful in mufti. Like a—a—"

"Go on," I said, nerving myself to it.

"Like an uneasy choir-boy. I think I shall send it back again and ask him to put it in a surplice."

"Yes, but why should my wife dangle a beneficed member of the Established Church of England round her neck? What proud prelate—"

"Choir-boy, darling. You're thinking of bishops."

As it happened my thoughts were not at all episcopal. On the contrary, I looked at the miniature again, and I looked at myself in the glass, and I said firmly that the thing must go back a fourth time.

Recruiting Sergeant. "WHAT ARE YOU FOR?"

Recruit. "FOR THE DURATION OF THE WAR, OR LONGER IF IT DOESN'T END SOONER."

"You can't wear it. People would come and ask you who it was and you couldn't tell them. You'd have to keep it locked up, and what's the good of that?"

"I can't write again," said Celia. "Poor man! Think of the trouble he's had. Besides I've got you back now. It was really just to remind me of you."

"Yes, but I shall frequently be out to tea. You'd better have it done properly now."

Celia was thoughtful. She began composing in her mind that fourth letter ... and frowning.

"I know," she cried suddenly. "You write this time!"

It was my turn to be thoughtful....

"I don't see it. How do I come in? What is my locus standi? Locus standi," I explained in answer to her raised eyebrows, "an oath in common use among our Italian allies, meaning—What do I write as?"

"As the owner of the face," said Celia in surprise.

"Yes, but I can't dilate on my own face."

"Why not?" said Celia, bubbling. "You know you'd love