"Will you smoke?" said the Belgian, producing a silver cigarette-case.
"Not just now, thanks. I'm going to have some grub first, and if you don't mind I'll bunk upstairs and get a sluice."
"That boy is one of the best in the world, although he's my own brother," explained Bob Dashwood when Dennis had gone.
"How old?"
"Eighteen and a half," replied Bob.
"It is young to be killed," said Van Drissel gravely.
"But he isn't killed yet. Never knew such a fellow for falling on his feet. Of course, we all have to take our chances out there, but I don't mind betting you he comes off with a D.S.O. or a Military Cross, or something or other. You will hear of him yet, mark my words."
Thanks to Bob's experience, the kit buying did not take long, and in three days the boy sported his service uniform, to the rather oppressive admiration of Billy and the huge delight of his sisters. The Medical Board, too, had passed Bob as fit for service again, and the kit leave went like a flash.
Altogether, it had been a great week, with Dennis like a sea breeze filling the house with his wonderful spirits. There were people to dinner almost every evening, among them Uncle Eric, who was a staff captain at the War Office.
And then it all came to an end, and the last night arrived, and the mother and her two soldier sons sat down to dinner alone.