But, though he had laughed as usual for old Jackson’s benefit, and though the remains of the laugh lingered in the corners of his eyes, he was feeling graver than he ever remembered feeling in his life before. For he had just been reading, over his breakfast, the momentous news that Great Britain, having received no reply to her ultimatum respecting the neutrality of Belgium, had declared war on Germany. And that was enough to make any man grave indeed. He was on his way back from the women’s hospital wards, where he had two or three cases which were causing him some anxiety, when one of the attendants caught sight of him and came hurrying up. “I’ve just taken a letter to your room, sir. Special, I think. I didn’t know where you were.” “Thank you, Barton! I’ll go along and get it,” and he knew what that letter was likely to be. And it was. A long official envelope with O.H.M.S. in peremptorily solid black letters above the address ‘Dr Connal Dare, R.A.M.C.’ He ripped it open and found himself no more Dr Dare of Birch Grove Asylum but Dr and Lieutenant Dare of the Royal Army Medical Corps, under orders to report himself within twenty-four hours at Medical Head-Quarters in London. He read the orders quietly, and stood for a moment considering them and himself, and the whole matter aloofly. His eyes wandered thoughtfully round the room--over his books, his few pictures and photographs of the home-folks. It was quite within the possibilities that he might never see any of these things again. War was full of mischances, even in the non-combatant arm. He was all ready, kit packed, notes of his cases carefully written out. He added a word or two to these and swung away to see the Chief, his mind hard at work on another matter. Two hours later, all very spick and span in his uniform, he had deposited his baggage in the Luggage-Office at London Bridge, had invaded St. Barnabas’s and interviewed the Matron, and had masterfully talked her into breaking the rules, or at all events straining them to such a point that the desire of his heart could creep through. He had been one of her favoured boys when he was there and they were on very friendly terms, and, as he explained to her with extreme earnestness, it was, after all, only a technical breach and--it was war-time. He tried to prove that they were all under martial law but she only smiled at him. He might be. She was not. Still, she was willing to admit that circumstances--such as a general European War--altered cases. She had been young herself and she understood fully how he felt. As a matter of duty she put it to him to consider whether it was the best thing to do, and he proved to her, with his most irresistible smile, that it was. And finally she sent an attendant to find Nurse Luard. Alma came in in a few minutes and became a radiant illumination at sight of Con in his uniform--a radiance of sparkling eyes and tell-tale cheeks. “I was expecting you,” she said happily.