It was a beautiful world, this world outside of the iron bars. Everyone in it contributed to his pleasure and to his comfort. In this world he was not starved nor man-handled. He thought of this joyfully as he leaped up the stairs, where young men with grave faces and with their hands held negligently behind their backs bowed to him in polite surprise at his speed. But they had not been starved on condensed milk. He threw his coat and hat at one of them, and came down the hall fearfully and quite weak with dread lest it should not be real. His voice was shaking when he asked Ellis if he had reserved a table. The place was all so real, it must be true this time. The way Ellis turned and ran his finger down the list showed it was real, because Ellis always did that, even when he knew there would not be an empty table for an hour. The room was crowded with beautiful women; under the light of the red shades they looked kind and approachable, and there was food on every table, and iced drinks in silver buckets. It was with the joy of great relief that he heard Ellis say to his underling, “_Numéro cinq, sur la terrace, un couvert_.” It was real at last. Outside, the Thames lay a great gray shadow. The lights of the Embankment flashed and twinkled across it, the tower of the House of Commons rose against the sky, and here, inside, the waiter was hurrying toward him carrying a smoking plate of rich soup with a pungent, intoxicating odor. And then the ragged palms, the glaring sun, the immovable peaks, and the white surf stood again before him. The iron rails swept up and sank again, the fever sucked at his bones, and the pillow scorched his cheek. One morning for a brief moment he came back to real life again and lay quite still, seeing everything about him with clear eyes and for the first time, as though he had but just that instant been lifted over the ship’s side. His keeper, glancing up, found the prisoner’s eyes considering him curiously, and recognized the change. The instinct of discipline brought him to his feet with his fingers at his sides. “Is the Lieutenant feeling better?” The Lieutenant surveyed him gravely. “You are one of our hospital stewards.” “Yes, Lieutenant.” “Why aren’t you with the regiment?” “I was wounded, too, sir. I got it same time you did, Lieutenant.” “Am I wounded? Of course, I remember. Is this a hospital ship?” The steward shrugged his shoulders. “She’s one of the transports. They have turned her over to the fever cases.” The Lieutenant opened his lips to ask another question; but his own body answered that one, and for a moment he lay silent. “Do they know up North that I—that I’m all right?” “Oh, yes, the papers had it in—there were pictures of the Lieutenant in some of them.” “Then I’ve been ill some time?”