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She moved away, and took up a position in a seat that faced him. There she sat and gazed at him, helpless and passive, panting a little with emotion; until a thought occurred to her. "Who's looking after the little children?" "Winny Winny Dymond." "Why didn't you send for me, Ranny?" "It was too late last night." "I'd have come, my dear. I'd have got out of me bed."
"Ranny," she said, suddenly; "if I were you I wouldn't bring strangers in for a bit while your father's sufferin' as he is." "Oh, I say, Mother " Ranny was disconcerted, for he had been going to ask her if he might bring Winny Dymond in some day. "Well," she said, "it isn't as if He was one that could get away by Himself, like. He's always in and out." "Yes.
He dragged himself home to his attic and his bed, where, astoundingly, incredibly, he slept. It was about nine o'clock of another Sunday evening a week later. Winny Dymond was sitting on the edge of Violet's bed in the little back room in St. Ann's Terrace.
There was a pause, then an awful explosion, which hurled Dymond to the ground, and, as he fell, Newman's words seemed to run through his head: "I wish as 'ow we was a bit closer to the devils so that they couldn't shell us." He was aware of a moment's acute terror, then something in his brain seemed to snap and everything that followed was vague, for Captain Roger Dymond went mad.
And so the seeing home of Winny Dymond became a fascinating and uncertain game, fascinating because of its uncertainty; it had all the agitation and allurement of pursuit and capture; if she had wanted to allure and agitate him, no art of "cock-a-tree" could have served her better. He was determined to see Winny Dymond home.
And this is the story of Captain Roger Dymond, V.C., M.C. Of the few of us who were there at the time, there is not one who would grudge him the right to put those most coveted letters of all after his name, for we were all in the shelling ourselves, and we all saw him charge, and heard him shout and laugh as he made his way across to the enemy.
Soon may the old skins burst? for we shall never want for better wine than they have ever held." A work has been lately published, written by Jonathan Dymond, who was a member of the Society of Friends, in England; it is entitled "Essays on the Principles of Morality" and most excellent Essays they are.
He knew, of course, for he was not absolutely without experience, that girls said these things; they said them to draw fellows on; it was their artfulness. There was a word for it; Ransome thought the word was "cock-a-tree." But Winny Dymond didn't say those things the least like that. She said them with the utmost gravity and determination.
And with every word of her strange, magical voice there went from him some shred of innocence and illusion. It was, of course, his innocence, his ignorance that had made him tolerant of a Grand Display, that had filled him with admiration for the Young Ladies of the Polytechnic Gymnasium, and that had attracted him to Winny Dymond. Everything he had thought and felt about Winny was illusion.
Wimp that he had overheard the prisoner denouncing Mr. Constant, he could not say. He had not actually heard the prisoner's denunciations; he might have given Mr. Wimp a false impression, but then Mr. Wimp was so prosaically literal. Crowl had told him something of the kind. Cross-examined, he said Jessie Dymond was a rare spirit and she always reminded him of Joan of Arc. Mr.
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