"I'm sure all his friends are," she said, smiling a queer little smile that was lost in the darkness. "He was a very sick man, in a great deal of pain, and we had a rather dreadful time of it. Of course it hit him far harder than it did either West or me. But never a whimper out of him from first to last. Always cheerful, always hopeful, with a little joke or a snatch of a song, even when it looked as though we couldn't go on another day. He's one out of ten thousand." "I heard him say that about another man--only I think he said one in fifty thousand," she made comment, almost in a murmur. "Any girl would be lucky to have such a man for a husband," he added fatuously. "Yes. I hope he'll find some nice one who will appreciate him." This left no room for misunderstanding. Tom's brain whirled. "You--you and he haven't had any--quarrel?" "No. What made you think so?" "I don't know. I suppose I'm an idiot. But I thought--" He stopped. She took up his unfinished sentence. "You thought wrong."