"My dear Mackinnon, yesterday the Vicar——"
"I knew it would be difficult," he said, and took a fourth sheet. Absently he began to jot down a few possible openings:—
"I am a Special Constable ..."
"Have you read Mrs. Humphry Ward's latest ..."
"I hope the War won't last long ..."
"Yes," he said, "but we're not being really funny enough."
He collected his letters as far as they had gone and took them to his wife.
"You see what will happen, darling," he said. "Mr. Mackinnon will read them, and he will say to himself, 'There's a man called Jeremy P. Smith who is a fool.' The news will travel down the line. They will tell themselves in Alsace that J. P. Smith, the Treasurer of the Little Blessington Cricket Club, is lacking in grey matter. The story will get across to the Germans in some garbled form; 'Smith off crumpet,' or something of that sort. It will reach the Grand Duke Nicholas; it will traverse the neutral countries; everywhere the word will be spread that your husband is, as they say, barmy. I ask you, dear—is it fair to Baby?"
Mrs. Jeremy crumpled up the sheets and threw them in the fire.
"Oh, Jeremy," she said, "you could do it so easily if you wanted to. If you only said, 'Thank you for being so brave,' it would be something."