At any rate, she knew the duty of an English mother when the country was in danger; so she had sent him away with a brave face and her blessing, as she had done before.

But, although English mothers could show themselves Spartans--( she spelt it "Spartians," dear lady, but no matter)--yet they were women and had to sit at home and weep.

In the meanwhile, her palpitations had come on dreadfully bad, and so had her neuritis, and she had suffered dreadfully after eating some fish at dinner which she was sure Pennideath, the fishmonger--she always felt that man was an anarchist in disguise--had bought out of the condemned stock at Billingsgate, and none of the doctor's medicines were of the slightest good to her, and she was heartbroken at having to part so suddenly from Leonard, and would I spare half an hour to comfort an old woman who had sent her only son to die for his country and was ready, when it pleased God, if not sooner, to die in the same sacred cause?
So of course I went.

The old lady, propped on pillows in an overheated room, gave me tea and poured into my ear all the anguish of her simple heart.

In an abstracted, anxious way, she ate a couple of crumpets and a wedge of cake with almond icing, and was comforted.
We continued our discussion of the war--or rather Leonard, for with her Leonard seemed to be the war.