You have put me in spirits, Mr.Lashmar; may it not be long before I next talk with you.

Meanwhile, I dig the trenches!" Ale and strong tobacco, to both of which he was unaccustomed, wrought confusingly upon Dyce's brain as he was borne through the night.

He found himself murmuring the name of Constance, and forming a resolve to win her to intimacy on the morrow.

Yes, he liked Constance after all.
Then came a memory of Martin Blaydes's diatribe, and he laughed approvingly.

But Constance was an exception, the best type of modern woman.