... And the doctors laughed at him. They laughed very kindly; but all the same, they laughed.

Heron Baynet began the disillusionment when he signed the “opinion” demanded by the Medical Board.

“You haven’t got a dog’s chance,” said his father-in-law. “Not a dog’s chance. Look at yourself in the glass; and be reasonable. I’ll certify you cured of shell-shock if you insist. But what about your physical condition? You’ve lost three stone in weight: you admit you sweat at the slightest exertion: and your lungs wouldn’t pass a medical student if you made him three-parts tight before he tested ’em.”

“All the same,” said Peter, stubbornly, “I’m going to have a shot for it.”

Heron Baynet worded that opinion very carefully. Neither as doctor nor as father-in-law did he wish his patient to fall into the clutches of bureaucratic medicine. For although, after two years of agitation, the War Office had at last consented to admit the existence of neurasthenia, although neurasthenia was to have its own Medical Staff, its special “clinics” for treatment, its special recovery hospitals, so far, very little had been accomplished. Heron Baynet knew that there were at least thirty thousand cases to be treated—and recovery accommodation for about three thousand. The remainder ... Heron Baynet did not like to think about the remainder: he had heard their screams too often, walked too many nights among the wards where they lay—each man’s distracted mind poisoning his neighbour’s. Therefore Heron Baynet did not write the word “neurasthenia” on the opinion he gave about his son-in-law: instead he wrote ... “is still suffering, in my opinion, from slight debility.”

“Is that the best you can do?” asked Peter.

“Yes,” the doctor dried his crabbed handwriting with a vicious blow of the tortoise-shell blotting-pad, “and I’ve perjured my medical soul by writing the word ‘slight.’”

Two days later, as he waited his turn for examination in a long draughty corridor, Peter drew the opinion from his tunic-pocket; re-read it with great care—and tore the paper to shreds.

He might just as well have produced the document. Nothing he could say to the three over-kind men in khaki made the slightest difference. They entered up papers; they examined papers; they made him take off his tunic; they made him put it on again. Then with great politeness they turned him out of the room.

“Well?” asked the President, a white-haired gentleman with three medal-ribbons and gold-rimmed eye-glasses.

The two younger members of the Board looked at him doubtfully. “What do you think, sir?”

“Done in,” said the President laconically....

They sent for Peter and put the position to him. “Go into a nursing-home—or resign your commission. Either way you’ll never be fit for active service again.”

Peter thought the matter over for fifteen seconds; then he said, “Very good, sir. I’ll chuck it.”

They entered up more papers; certified him for a temporary pension. They advised him to live in the country; and forgot to acknowledge his meticulous salute. “Next officer, please,” Peter heard behind him as his spur-chains clanked down the corridor.

Once in the open air, he found himself trembling all over. He let himself tremble. He could tremble till Kingdom Come if it amused him. Trembling passed. He lit a cigar; hailed a taxi.

“Where to, sir?” asked the driver.

Peter was conscious of three distinct impulses: to have a drink by himself, to stand somebody else a drink, and to be stood a drink by somebody.

“The Savoy Hotel,” said the man who had finished the course.