Christmas found them at Le Trayas, on the Esterelles coast, an isolated paradise unprofaned by sight or sound of the noisy, restless life of the French Riviera. Here Theo Desmond had spent whole hours at a stretch, basking in the temperate December sunshine, under feathery mimosa bushes, that glorify the foothills,--silent as ever, yet seemingly content. Still he wrote no line to the Regiment, that for thirteen years had stood second only to his God, and very rarely asked for news of it or his friends. By now their letters betrayed hints and more than hints of increasing anxiety. The men wrote tentatively; but Frank Olliver, nothing if not direct, poured forth her loving, unreasoning Irish heart on closely-written sheets of foreign paper, to Wyndham's alternate distraction and delight. "Is there no manner of wild tale you could invent now to rouse the blessed man?" she wrote about this time. "Sure it's past believing that his pretty doll of a wife--who went near to ruin him living--should stand between him and us that love him, worse than ever now she's dead. The fear of it haunts me like a bogey and makes me go red hot inside." The selfsame fear made Paul Wyndham go cold in the small hours; but he could not bring himself to write of it, even to Frank. At last, in the second week of the New Year, there came news that wrought a change in Desmond; news from John Meredith of his father's broken health and his sister's immediate departure for England. She would sail in a week, he wrote, and would travel overland. Paul, reading the letter to his friend, had a sudden inspiration. "Theo, let's go and meet her at Marseilles!" he said eagerly, "and see her safe into the express. It would please Meredith--and her too." For the fraction of a second, an answering eagerness glowed in Desmond's eyes; then vanished, leaving his face a politely interested mask. But Paul had seen the flash and pressed his point accordingly. "Of _course_ you'll come, Theo. A sight of her will do us both good. I'm glad I thought of it." "So am I," Desmond agreed, without a particle of gladness in his level tone. "But--you can leave me out of the programme. One of us is enough--for all that is needed; and it's only right it should be you." "I don't quite follow the logic of that." Desmond's set face softened to a smile. "Don't you, old man? Then you must take my word for it." In spite of that smile Paul heard the note of finality in his friend's voice and said no more. On the appointed morning he set out alone to meet the ship, pain and elation contending in his heart. But when, at last, he set eyes on Honor Meredith, and saw her whole face lighten at sight of him, complexities were submerged in a flood-tide of simple, human joy.