"The news is good, isn't it?" inquired Blackburn, a little stiffly, because he could think of nothing else to say.
"First rate. There isn't a doubt but we'll whip the Germans before autumn. It wasn't about the war, however, that I came."
"There is something else then?"
Before he replied Colonel Ashburton looked up gravely at the portrait of Blackburn's mother which hung over the mantelpiece. "Very like her, very like her," he remarked. "She was a few years older than I—but I'm getting on now—I'm getting on. That's the worst of being born between great issues. I was too young for the last war—just managed to be in one big battle before Lee surrendered—and I'm too old for this one. A peace Colonel doesn't amount to much, does he?" Then he looked sharply at Blackburn. "David," he asked in a curiously inanimate voice, "have you heard the things people are saying about you?"
"I have heard nothing except what has been said to my face."
"Then I may assume that the worst is still to be told you?"
"You may safely assume that, I think."
Again the Colonel's eyes were lifted to the portrait of Blackburn's mother. "There must be an answer to a thing like this, David," he said slowly. "There must be something that you can say."
"Tell me what is said."
Shaking the silvery hair from his forehead, the older man still gazed upward, as if he were interrogating the portrait—as if he were seeking guidance from the imperishable youth of the painted figure. Serene and soft as black pansies, the eyes of the picture looked down on him from a face that reminded him of a white roseleaf.