I smiled as I rose. “That’s not so thrilling a message now, sweetheart, as it has been any time these last months.” Outside in the corridor was a gentleman of rather distinguished appearance, whom I had not seen before.
“Mr. James Orrington?” he said inquiringly.
I responded affirmatively.
“I am Sir Arthur Braithwaite, one of the King’s equerries,” he said. “He sent you this by me,” and he handed me a package and withdrew. I turned away to find Tom and Dorothy just passing. I showed them the package.
“Come up to my rooms,” said Dorothy eagerly. “We’ll open it there. This is just like getting Christmas presents.”
The outer layers off showed a square white box. I pressed the spring. Within lay a golden cigarette case. Its top held an inscription in exquisitely carved letters. “To James Orrington, Esquire. He served the State before Himself.” I lifted the case from its bed. Below was a brief note in the King’s own hand. Beside the address and signature, it bore these words: “I have never forgotten the service you did to England, to the world, and to me.”
I looked up. Dorothy’s eyes were veiled in a mist of tears. She came to me and kissed me. “Dear, I’m so glad, so proud of every bit of recognition. You deserve all of it,” and Tom wrung my hand with his old numbing grip, crying, “Bully for you, old man. That’s the first bit of furniture for the new house.”
There was just time for us to reach Hyde Park before the review, and we all three crowded into a hansom and sped away. Thousands surrounded the reviewing field, and it was only with difficulty that we found our way through. Our card of invitation worked wonders, however, and with that marvellous command of crowds which the London police possess, we finally came through and found ourselves at the reviewing stand, just as the band announced the coming of the troops. The Foot Guards first, with that strange downthrust of the foot, relic of the marching step of many decades ago, then the Scots, and then regiment after regiment, till the whole field was covered with the pride of Britain’s troops in their most gorgeous panoply of war. The King, in field marshal’s uniform, stood at the centre. What thoughts must have racked his brain as he stood there silent, erect, immobile! What visions of the long line of English sovereigns! What memories of the thousands of reviews of centuries past, when Britain’s soldiers left for wars of conquest, or returned, bearing new laurels, offering new lands to the great island empire! The music ceased. As if by one accord, the ensigns of the regiments, bearing the old flags, torn by shot and shell, revealing in golden scroll the record of British prowess, came to the front and centre. Then, in one long line, forward came the colors. The King saluted, and they turned and formed a compact mass of brilliant color on the right. I heard a whispered question and answer.
“What is to be done with the colors?”