*CHAPTER XXIII* Twelve days again without a letter, and ah, dear God! the news from France! I kept my promise, and Ross knows, and though he wraps me round with love, it is as if I cannot taste or see or feel, but I can only listen for the post that does not come. It has been a wretched week, several of our friends are killed and many wounded, and to-day at lunch the S.P. brought a telegram, and my heart stopped beating. ’It’s Foxhill,’ Ross said huskily, looking across at me quickly, and my heart went on again, and then I prayed that I might be forgiven for being glad that it was Charlie and not Michael. ’Not killed,’ said Ross, ’but blinded, and his right arm gone above the elbow. He’s in London, and would like to see us. Shall we go this afternoon, there’s just time to catch the train?’ ’Oh, poor Charlie—and poor Monica!’ I added and got up. I felt I hated God. Just then a car stopped, and the door bell rang, and presently the S.P. came and said,— ’The Hon. Miss Cunningham is in the drawing-room,’ and even at that moment I noticed how she loved to say ’the Honourable,’ it was so exclusive. I thought what a beast I was, and said,— ’Monica? oh, my poor Monica.’ She was standing by the window with a frozen look upon her face, very pitiful to see. ’Don’t go, Ross,’ she said, after he had shaken hands and was preparing to leave us together, ’You know Charlie best. Don’t go, it’s you I’ve come to see. You are his greatest friend. Perhaps you can tell me about this, perhaps you know why he has written this to me, who love him so,’ and she held out a letter. It was very short, and typed, except the signature, which was very badly written. ’DEAR MONICA,—It was more than good of you to write to me, but I have thought things over very carefully since I received your letter, and have come to the conclusion that it is best for me to say at once that I feel now I cannot marry you. Please do not try to see me, and think of me as kindly as you can. ’CHARLIE.’ ’Has he told you, Ross? Doesn’t he love me any more?’ she said, with quivering lips, pathetic In my proud Monica. ’Monica, dear,’ said Ross, ’haven’t you heard about his wounds?’ ’I have heard nothing since I wrote to him till I got this.’ Then very gently Ross told her about the poor blinded eyes while I kneeled beside her and tried to rub a little warmth into her ice cold hands. ’And I expect,’ Ross finished up, ’that he wrote like this because he was half mad with pain knowing that he must give you up.’ ’Why should he give me up?’ she asked. ’Why, Monica, surely you see that it’s the only honourable thing he could do, now that he’s so helpless; don’t you see, dear, every other man would do the same?’ ’Then men are cruel,’ I burst out. ’They never think the same as women do. If Monica had married him, would he write like that?’