for her own scattered and scanty education, she had begun to speak of it almost with bitterness. George's talk and recollections betrayed quite unconsciously the standards of the academic or highly-trained professional class to which all his father's kindred belonged; and his only sister, a remarkably gifted girl, who had died of pneumonia at eighteen, just as she was going to Girton, seemed to Nelly, when he occasionally described or referred to her, a miracle--a terrifying miracle--of learning and accomplishment. Once indeed, she broke out in distress:--'Oh, George, I don't know anything! Why wasn't I sent to school! We had a wretched little governess who taught us nothing. And then I'm lazy--I never was ambitious--like Bridget. Do you mind that I'm so stupid--do you mind?' And she laid her hands on his knee, as they sat together among the fern, while her eyes searched his face in a real anxiety. What joy it was to laugh at her--to tease her! '_How_ stupid are you, darling? Tell me, exactly. It is of course a terrible business. If I'd only known--' But she would be serious. 'I don't know _any_ languages, George! Just a little French--but you'd be ashamed if you heard me talking it. As to history--don't ask!' She shrugged her shoulders despairingly. Then her face brightened. 'But there's something! I do love poetry--I've read a lot of poetry.' 'That's all right--so have I,' he said, promptly. 'Isn't it strange--' her tone was thoughtful--'how people care for poetry nowadays! A few years ago, one never heard of people--ordinary people--_buying_ poetry, new poetry--or reading it. But I know a shop in Manchester that's just full of poetry--new books and old books--and the shop-man told me that people buy it almost more than anything. Isn't it funny? What makes them do it? Is it the war?' Sarratt considered it, while making a smooth path for a gorgeous green beetle through the bit of turf beside him. 'I suppose it's the war,' he said at last. 'It does change fellows. It's easy enough to go along bluffing and fooling in ordinary times. Most men don't know what they think--or what they feel--or whether they feel anything. But somehow--out there--when you see the things other fellows are doing--when you know the things you may have to do yourself--well----' 'Yes, yes--go on!' she said eagerly, and he went on, but reluctantly, for he had seen her shiver, and the white lids fall a moment over her eyes. '--It doesn't seem unnatural--or hypocritical--or canting--to talk and feel--sometimes--as you couldn't talk or feel at home, with life going on just as usual. I've had to censor letters, you see, darling--and the letters some of the roughest and stupidest fellows write, you'd never believe. And there's no pretence in it either. What would be the good of pretending out there? No--it's just the pace life goes--and the fire--and the strain of it. It's awful--and _horrible_--and yet you wouldn't not be there for the world.'