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evidence would be badly wanted at the inquest. “No Dai, eh?” he murmured to himself.
    â€œTell me, Doctor bach ?” she wheedled. But he fixed his eye indignantly on his half-filled glass:
    â€œWoman! Is that how you pour a drink?”
    â€œMeans opening another bottle,” she answered impatiently: “Mr. Augustine, you were just saying ... ?”
    â€œThen fetch one and open it,” he replied implacably.
7
    Dr. Brinley was happy. The room had begun to rock gently but only like—like a cradle: the motion was not unpleasant yet .
    It was good to see old customs kept up. Flemton Banquet claimed to be as old as Flemton’s Norman charter—old as the titular High Stewardship itself and the little mediaeval garrison of Flemish mercenaries out of which the place had grown (to this day no Welsh was spoken within Flemton, though all the mainland talked it). It had been well worth the long pony-drive from the Cross! Eh? It was good— good to be here among all these good fellows. Laddies, and lassies too: they all liked him. They liked his jokes ... That was the point: he was among them and they all loved him so now he was on top of things ...
    He surveyed the room. It was time now to think up a new joke, else they’d forget him and start talking among themselves. A good one ... well then a bad one, anything ...
    But his cudgelled brains went suddenly as obstinate as a cudgelled ass.
    Perhaps another glass?— A-a-a-ah! Thank God for His good gift of whiskey! Drinking ... Yes, drinking and hunting: those were the only two times he really felt “ We ” were all one, felt he truly belonged.
    Whiskey ... yes, and hunting too—in the past , but now you were old, now you could do no more than jog to the Meet and back ...
    This motion, now: was it a cradle, or was it a galloping horse titty-tup titty-tup ...?
    â€œHup! And over!” he suddenly exclaimed aloud.
    The room faded and he was away: hounds in full cry, Black Bess (or was it Dandy?) between his thighs, leading the field. Hup! Black Bess it was: how beautifully she changed feet on top of the bank and then the downward plunge, the miraculous recovery and away.— Aren’t you afraid? —Yes of course he was afraid. Broken neck, crushed ribs ... but damn it!
    That gap to the right looks a trifle easier ... Well, perhaps, but ... Curse her she’s going for the highest place of a-a-a-all! Hup! —Oh, thank God!
    â€œGentlemen, The King!”
    Dr. Brinley was on his feet before any of them, and added a fervent “God bless him!” when he had emptied his glass.—Good lad, George Five! But that boy of his (the Prince) would break his neck one of these days if they let him go on riding.
    Yes, hunting was the thing ... of course no doctor could practice and hunt three days a week as well! Be damned to private practice, then! They could go on their bended knees ...
    Was that the real reason, or just you were a rotten bad doctor? —Eh?— Did you leave your practice? Or did your practice leave you?
    An angry tear rolled slowly down his nose.
    A drunken doctor, a sot? —Well, they’d made him Coroner, hadn’t they? That showed they respected him, didn’t it?— Maybe they’d rather trust you with the dead than with the livin g ...
    â€œGentlemen, The Memory of the Fallen!”
    A bugle sounded—shatteringly, in that enclosed space. Again the whole room rose stiffly to attention. Most had their memories (for that 1914 war had been a holocaust): all wore faces as if they had.
    Briefly and gravely the bishop said his piece. As he did so he tried to keep staring at the Legion banner on the wall opposite, but his gaze was drawn down willy-nilly to a young man under it with ribands on his chest. All that young man’s face except mouth and chin was hidden in a black mask which had no holes for eyes ... and suddenly the whole room reeked overpoweringly of