Outside, on the little patch of lawn up to the drive, they were mowing already with the horse-mower. They had made a very early start. The same George, the same Henry, leading the pony which had carried John across the open country behind the hounds before he had given up, and which was still the same. It was only John who had changed. “George,” she cried, “George.” The pony halted by himself, the men listened. “George, see that no stones get in the blades, it ruins them. Henry, you must pick them up and throw them back on to the drive.” Both: “Yes’m.” And they went on mowing. Of course they were going to keep her waiting for her breakfast now. But no, William came in and gravely announced it. As she went in she looked gratefully at him, he was a symbol. He had come to them directly after the honeymoon, prematurely white and sad. Ralph used to say that he was a marvellous valet. Thirty years ago. Then they had gone to India with the 10th. Ten years after they had come back, and had found William again. It was extraordinary, that, and Ralph had said then that he tasted comfort for the first time in ten years. At the funeral William had sent his own wreath, on it written in his copybook handwriting, “To his master respectfully from his valet.” It had not been tactful, she had had to thank him. He had exceeded himself. His only lapse. Nothing seemed worth while. Yesterday had tired her out utterly. First the doctors destroying her last bit of hope, and then her breaking it to him, which had been so terrible. She had gone up again after tea, and it had been frightful, his face underneath the bandages had been tortured, his mouth in a half-sneer. She had been frightened of him. And finally, as nicely as he could, he had asked her to leave him for the evening. The nurse had met her at the door and had whispered, “He is in rather a state,” as if she had not known that. The woman was a fool. This coffee was undrinkable. The cook had probably been gigglin’ again with Herbert. That affair! You could not drink it, absolutely undrinkable. She would make a row. But was it worth while? She felt so tired to-day. But the house must go on just as usual, there must be no giving way. She rang the bell. They must find some occupation for the boy, he could not be left there rankling. Making fancy baskets, or pen-wipers, all those things blinded soldiers did, something to do. William coughed. “William, this coffee is undrinkable. Will you tell the cook to find some occupation for ... to find some ... The roaster must be out of order. No, don’t take my cup away. I will drink it for this once.” Had he seen? At any rate he would not tell. She had not been able to give a simple order, it was terrible, without giving herself away. She must make inquiries about Braille books, and find someone to teach it to him. A knock. “Come in.” It was the nurse.