George was well enough in the late autumn to come home. He had learnt to hop along on his crutches very skilfully, and his preposterous donkey-drawn bath-chair soon became a familiar object in the lanes of the neighbourhood. It was a grand sight to behold when George rattled past at the trot, leaning forward like a young Phoebus in his chariot and urging his unwilling beast with voice and crutch. He drove over to Blaybury almost every day; Marjorie and he had endless talks about life and love and Guy and other absorbing topics. With Jacobsen he played piquet and discussed a thousand subjects. He was always gay and happy--that was what especially lacerated Jacobsen's heart with pity. IV THE Christmas holidays had begun, and the Reverend Roger was back again at Blaybury. He was sitting at the writing-table in the drawing-room, engaged, at the moment, in biting the end of his pen and scratching his head. His face wore an expression of perplexity; one would have said that he was in the throes of literary composition. Which indeed he was: "Beloved ward of Alfred Petherton . . ." he said aloud. "Beloved ward . . ." He shook his head doubtfully. The door opened and Jacobsen came into the room. Roger turned round at once. "Have you heard the grievous news?" he said. "No. What?" "Poor Guy is dead. We got the telegram half an hour ago." "Good God!" said Jacobsen in an agonized voice which seemed to show that he had been startled out of the calm belonging to one who leads the life of reason. He had been conscious ever since George's mutilation that his defences were growing weaker; external circumstance was steadily encroaching upon him. Now it had broken in and, for the moment, he was at its mercy. Guy dead. . . . He pulled himself together sufficiently to say, after a pause, "Well, I suppose it was only to be expected sooner or later. Poor boy." "Yes, it's terrible, isn't it?" said Roger, shaking his head. "I am just writing out an announcement to send to the _Times_. One can hardly say 'the beloved ward of Alfred Petherton,' can one? It doesn't sound quite right; and yet one would like somehow to give public expression to the deep affection Alfred felt for him. 'Beloved ward'--no, decidedly it won't do." "You'll have to get round it somehow," said Jacobsen. Roger's presence somehow made a return to the life of reason easier. "Poor Alfred," the other went on. "You've no idea how hardly he takes it. He feels as though he had given a son." "What a waste it is!" Jacobsen exclaimed. He was altogether too deeply moved. "I have done my best to console Alfred. One must always bear in mind for what Cause he died." "All those potentialities destroyed. He was an able fellow, was Guy." Jacobsen was speaking more to himself than to his companion, but Roger took up the suggestion.