'Her name is Hermie Cameron,' Mortimer said.
'That thriftless beggar's daughter!' was on the old man's lips, but the look on his son's face checked him.
'Yes—a pretty child,' was what he said instead, and thanked Heaven that her taste had been so bad.
'See here, dad,' Mortimer said awkwardly, 'of course it's not in the least likely I shall get hit—-but of course war's war, and there's a chance that one may get knocked over.'
'I don't need telling that,' said the old man quickly.
Mortimer pressed his shoulder. 'It's this, dad,' he said. 'I want to ask you a favour The Camerons—they're so hard up, it—it makes me fairly miserable.'
'A cheque, lad,' said the father eagerly, 'of course, of course. Would a thousand pounds do? You shall have it to-night—this minute.'
He was moving to get his cheque-book, but Morty detained him.
'No, no, dad,' he said, 'you don't know poor Cameron; he's the most unfortunate fellow in the world, but he's the last man who would take a present of money.'
'I could offer it as a loan,' suggested the old man.