“Yes,” said Somers, looking at him, and speaking in an absolutely neutral voice. Things said like that to him were never real to him: more like the noise of a cart passing, just a noise. The two doctors looked from his face down his thin nakedness again. “Put your shirt on,” said the younger one. And Somers could hear the mental comment, “Rum sort of a fellow,” as he did so. There was still a wait for the card. It was one of those cards: _A_--Called up for military service. _B_--Called up for service at the front, but not in the lines. _C_--Called up for non-military service. _R_--Rejected. _A_, _B_, and _C_ were ruled out in red ink, leaving the Rejected. He still had to go to another office for his pay--two shillings and fourpence, or something like that. He signed for this and was free. Free--with two shillings and fourpence, and pass for a railway ticket--and God’s air. The moment he stepped out with his card, he realised that it was Saturday morning, that the sun was shining, filling the big stone yard of the barracks, from which he could look to the station and the hill with its grass, beyond. That hill beyond--he had seemed to look at it through darkened glass, before. Till now, the morning had been a timeless greyness. Indeed, it had rained at seven o’clock, as they stood lounging miserably about in the barracks yard with its high wall, cold and bitter. And the tall man had talked to him bitterly. But now the sun shone, the dark-green, Cornish hill, hard-looking, was just a near hill. He walked through the great gates. Ah God, he was out, he was free. The road with trees went down-hill to the town. He hastened down, a free human being, on Saturday morning, the grey glaze gone from his eyes. He telegraphed the ignominious word Rejected, and the time of his arrival, to Harriet. Then he went and had dinner. Some of the other men came in. They were reserved now--there was a distance between him and them--he was not of their social class. “What are you?” they asked him. “Rejected,” he said. And they looked at him grudgingly, thinking it was because he was not a working man he had got special favour. He knew what they thought, and he tried not to look so glad. But glad he was, and in some mysterious way, triumphant. It was a wonderful journey on the Saturday afternoon home--sunny, busy, lovely. He changed at Truro and went into town. On the road he met some of the other fellows, who were called up, but not summoned for service immediately. They had some weeks, or months, of torment and suspense before them. They looked at Somers, and grinned rather jeeringly at him. They envied him--no wonder. And already he was a stranger, in another walk of life.