One day late in May, Clayton, walking up-town in lieu of the golf he had
been forced to abandon, met Doctor Haverford on the street, and found
his way barred by that rather worried-looking gentleman.

"I was just going to see you, Clayton," he said. "About two things. I'll
walk back a few blocks with you."

He was excited, rather exalted.

"I'm going in," he announced. "Regimental chaplain. I've got a year's
leave of absence. I'm rather vague about what a chaplain does, but I
rather fancy he can be useful."

"You'll get over, of course. You're lucky. And you'll find plenty to
do."

"I've been rather anxious," Doctor Haverford confided. "I've been a
clergyman so long that I don't know just how I'll measure up as a man.
You know what I mean. I am making no reflection on the church. But I've
been sheltered and--well, I've been looked after. I don't think I am
physically brave. It would be a fine thing," he said wryly, "if the
chaplain were to turn and run under fire!"

"I shouldn't worry about that."

"My salary is to go on. But I don't like that, either. If I hadn't a
family I wouldn't accept it. Delight thinks I shouldn't, anyhow. As a
matter of fact, there ought to be no half-way measures about our giving
ourselves. If I had a son to give it would be different."