Winterbourne smiled sadly and cynically; he knew that was a Venereal Disease Hospital. Pay was stopped while a man was under treatment, and he lost his right to Leave for a year. Winterbourne determined not to undeceive the policeman. “How long is it since he came out of hospital?” “Ten months or more.” “Oh, well, he’ll certainly get leave before Christmas.” “D’you think so? Reely? ’E’s such a good boy, good-lookin’ and well set-up. P’raps you’ll see ’im when you go back. Tom Jones. Gunner Tom Jones.” Winterbourne smiled again at the thought of looking for Tom Jones in the swarming and scattered thousands of the Artillery. But he said: “If I meet him, I’ll tell him how much you’re looking forward to seeing him.” He pressed half-a-crown in the policeman’s hand, to drink the health of Tom and himself. The policeman touched his helmet and called him “Sir.” * * * * * He had breakfast at a Lockhart’s—kippers and tea—and washed in an underground lavatory. He got back to the flat about ten. Unthinkingly he went into Elizabeth’s room. She and Reggie were having breakfast in dressing gowns. Winterbourne apologized almost abjectly, and went to his own room. He threw off the boots from his aching feet and lay down clothed. In ten minutes he was fast asleep. * * * * * The meeting with Fanny was somehow a failure. She was extremely gay and pretty and well-dressed and charming, and talked cheerily at first, and then valiantly against his awkward silences. Winterbourne did not know why he felt so awkward and silent. He seemed to have nothing to say to Fanny, and his mind appeared to have become sluggish—he missed half her witty sayings and clever allusions. It was like being up for oral examination, and continually making silly mistakes. Yet he was very fond of Fanny, very fond of her, just as he was very fond of Elizabeth. And yet he seemed to have so little to say to them, and found it so hard to follow their careless intellectual chatter. He had tried to tell Elizabeth some of his War experiences. Just as he was describing the gas bombardments and the awful look on the faces of men gassed, he noticed her delicate mouth was wried by a suppressed yawn. He stopped abruptly, and tried to talk of something else. Fanny was sympathetic, but he could see he was boring her, too. Of course, he was boring her. She and other people got more than enough of the war from the newspapers and everything about them; they wanted to forget it, of course, they wanted to forget it. And there was he, dumb and dreary and khakied, only awaking to any appearance of animation when he talked of the line after drinking a good deal. He took Fanny home in a taxi, and held her hand, gazing silently in front of him. At the door of her flat, he kissed her: “Good-night, Fanny dearest. Thank you so much for having dinner with me.” “Aren’t you coming in?”