In those early days, the Endsleigh Gardens Hospital for officers was a place of easy discipline, comely V.A.D. nurses and frolicsome patients. Francis, still unable to walk, could not be frolicsome: but they gave him a room to himself, a tiny room, linoleum-carpeted, high up on the sixth floor; and in a funny introspective way, he was happy.

The “faithful Prout,” overjoyed at his master’s return, insinuated himself somehow or other into the Hospital; brought meals; ran errands as of yore. A new doctor substituted “B.I.P.”—a saffron ointment of bismuth, iodoform and petroleum—for the Carrel-Dakin treatment; and pain departed. His kit arrived from France. He began to read, omnivorously, old books and new: dreamed even of working. But no poem came, only vague inspirations which refused to materialize. Beatrice wrote—a chatty letter; was answered in the same strain. And, of course, there were visitors, flowers, cigarettes, well-wishes from admirers. For, among a limited circle, Francis enjoyed “celebrity.” ...

It was early afternoon of Christmas Eve. He lay in bed, wicker cage over his legs, propped on multitudinous pillows. Through the open window by the glowing fire-place, he could see the high hills of outer London, tree-fringed, blue against gray skies. He had been alone all day, visioning once again that great poem of Anglo-Saxondom which always eluded him. For now that he had—as he thought—definitely put aside all hope of Beatrice, this belief in a Federation of the English-speaking races, with which she had inspired him, seemed somehow a consolation.

“Mrs. Jameson to see you, sir,” announced Prout. Patricia followed the little man into the room. She had been driving the car: and the dark motoring-furs accentuated the blond tallness of her. He had thought, once or twice, that the strain of Peter’s absence was telling on his cousin’s wife, graving little lines round eyes and chin. But today she looked young, radiant.

“Peter’s coming home,” she said. “On leave.”

“When?”

“Tonight. Isn’t it splendid?”

They talked Peter for a while. Prout brought them tea on a little wicker-table.

“I heard all about his Brigade the other day,” said Patricia, bringing a second cup to the bedside. “Captain Torrington—you met him I think, he’s a V.C.—told me. They must have had a dreadful time at Loos.”

“Torrington?” Francis thought the name over. “Yes. I remember him. He was there the night I dined with them. Where did you meet him? Is he on leave too?”

“No. He’s home for good. He never ought to have gone out, you know. But he insisted—and broke down. You men are so stupid about that sort of thing. I suppose you’ll want to do something again as soon as your leg’s right....”

“I wonder,” said Francis. “You see, I’ll never be any good at my own job again. A man with a limp is too easily spotted. And as for office jobs, there seem to be enough stay-at-home heroes without me....”

“I wonder why it is”—Patricia lit herself a cigarette—“that you are all so bitter against the people who stay at home. Everybody can’t go to the front.”

“It isn’t everybody who wants to,” commented Francis acridly.

She changed the topic; produced the Christmas present she had brought—a Whytwarth fountain-pen, gold-mounted and of enormous ink-capacity. He eyed it doubtfully at first; till she shewed him the simplicity of its action. Then he began to take professional interest; screwed it up and down again; tested the nib on the fly-leaf of one of the many books at his bed-side.

“By Jove, Pat,” he said at last, “I believe you’ve discovered the only fountain-pen.... And I never thought you a clever woman!”

Remembering old animosities, she blushed at that, and they laughed together like two children.

“And when does Peter arrive?” he asked.

“Late, I’m afraid. Not before midnight anyway.”

“Are you going to meet him?”

“Of course.”

He began to tease her aimlessly; called her the “expectant bride.” “Do you know, Pat, that I believe you’re madly in love with that cousin of mine. After nine years of matrimony, too. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

Said Patricia, arranging her veil for the street: “I shouldn’t chaff people too much about being in love, if I were you, Francis”: and with a meaning glance at Beatrice’s photograph on the mantelpiece, departed.