All through his cousin’s wedding in the little church at Arlsfield, Peter—who gave away the bride—felt conscious of a reasonless but ever-growing depression. It seemed to him as though—Francis married—his last man-friend would vanish. Almost he grudged the veiled girl her obvious happiness....

And this feeling of depression did not wear off as the easy April days slipped by. Rather, it increased. All the man in Peter resented ill-health; resented the lack of male companionship; resented idleness. And idleness, Heron Baynet assured him, was imperative: two hours of manual labour in the garden and one trip to London about finance, proved the correctness of Heron Baynet’s contention.

He began to worry about the future. His pension, thirty shillings a week subject to revision, barely paid a third of his assurance premiums—the children must be sent to school—the expenses of Sunflowers rose hourly with the tide of war-extravagance which had swept over England. “Things can’t go on like this,” exactly represents Peter’s attitude.

He decided to go back into the tobacco-business—and reversed decision as soon as reached. The mere thought of London nauseated him. Somehow, he could no longer imagine himself at a desk.... Patricia, consulted on this point, agreed so strenuously that Peter became suspicious. “Why shouldn’t I go back?” he remonstrated. “It’s the only trade I know. The Imperial would give me a job tomorrow.” ... Nevertheless, he discarded the idea.

The tobacco-business, like the Army, lay behind him. He was out of the one as he was out of the other. But memories of both still haunted his mind. Of the two lives he had lived, he missed the military one most. Maurice Beresford, Elkins, Schornstein and the Bramsons seemed petty figures compared with the Weasel and General Blacklock, Conway and Sandiland and Charlie Henry. But letters from the Brigade dwindled and dwindled, soon ceased altogether; till only an occasional poem by Purves, who continued his conquering campaign in the Press, and Alice Stark’s gossipy letters to Patricia, reminded of khaki.

For the world, war went on; but for Peter it had stopped dead. He saw it from afar: spectator and not participant. His lack of interest in it amazed him almost as much as the glorious credulity of the civilians with whom he occasionally discussed its official versions—perversions. Finally, in a fit of ungovernable annoyance over a picture of “cheery wounded” after the battle of Messines, he barred the topic altogether. Patricia made no objection; but the children demurred furiously.

“If Daddy isn’t going to tell us about killing Germans,” threatened Primula one evening, “I shall refuse to go to sleep.”

“You bloodthirsty little wretch,” began Peter; and till their mother intervened, “bloodthirsty” became the school-room adjective.

However, Evelyn and Primula’s passion for the word “bloodthirsty” paled into insignificance at the coming of Peter’s brother Arthur. Arthur had “got a job” at the Godstone flying-school; and you never knew, as you sat at lessons or romped in the garden, what particular moment might not bring the drone of Arthur’s engine, high up in the air, like an enormous bee. He used to come swooping across country, from behind the trees at the back of the paddock; and you could always tell if it were Uncle Arthur because his engine made a funny noise—buzz, stop, buzz, stop, buzz—when he meant to land in Tebbits’ pasture. Once, too, Uncle Arthur stunted, really “stunted,” for nearly twenty minutes, miles up, right over the roof.... But Arthur never repeated that blissful performance; his “falling leaf” proving too much for Peter’s nerves.

“You neurasthenic old idiot,” growled the flying man, “there’s no danger at all. One just shuts off the engine....”

“I know all about that,” said Peter, “but to see you turning over and over sideways frightens me out of my wits. Besides, if anything happened, you’d be court-martialled.”

“By the Archangel Gabriel, I suppose,” grinned Arthur; and soared off into the blue.

“Now that,” thought Peter, “is a man’s life. Whereas mine.” ... And again depression gripped him.