“Major O’Shea,” she began bravely, “I have known for a long time how Nanette felt about you.…” “And I suppose you have reproached me,” said he. “I have not,” she returned. “I have had many opportunities of watching, and I know that your behaviour has been admirable, if…” she hesitated. “Yes?” O’Shea urged gently. “If she has really meant anything to you. Be frank with me, Major O’Shea. Has she?” “She has,” he replied gravely. “I didn’t know, but I know now.” “It is frightfully hard to say,” she went on, “but…” she turned to me impulsively. “Can you help me, Mr. Decies?” “I think I can,” said I. “There is no reason why my friend, Major O’Shea, should not marry Nanette, unless there is any on your side. Personally, he thinks he is too old for her!” This last remark I added in what was meant to be a facetious manner, for the situation was difficult to cope with. “But please tell us--how is she?” “She will recover,” was the reply, “thanks to the speedy attention that she received. Failing this, it might have been--otherwise. I am afraid she cannot be moved for some time, Mr. Decies. It will be a dreadful inconvenience for you.…” “And a great honour,” I added. “Is it possible to see her?” “I don’t know if it is advisable. But she is asking to see”--glancing at O’Shea--“someone.” O’Shea bit his lip--the nearest approach to a display of emotion that I had ever observed in him--and turned quickly aside. Then followed a period of waiting. Nanette’s girl friend came down, having been relieved by a professional nurse. She smiled at O’Shea, and blushed furiously; an unusual accomplishment in a girl of her type and age. But the smile and the blush told me more of the state of Nanette’s heart than a long dissertation could have revealed. The young medical officer appeared at last, and his expression was reassuring. “Can we go up?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied; “I have Sir Frank’s permission to admit you for three minutes, but no more than three minutes.” He stared significantly at O’Shea. In a queerly furtive fashion I began to mount the stairs of my own house, treading softly as upon holy ground and going with bated breath. O’Shea moved equally silently. I cannot say what his feelings were at this moment, for I did not even look at him. But when we came to the door of the sick room that had been my bedroom, it was opened by a white-capped nurse, and we entered, catlike as burglars. Nanette lay propped up in my bed, with closed eyes. She was pale, but, in that hour, more adorable than ever. Her mother sat over by an open window, watching, and Sir Frank Leslie stood beside the bed. We crept forward, abashed as detected criminals. But Nanette did not stir, until: “Someone has come to say good-night to you, dear,” said her mother. Then the drooping lids quivered, and she raised her blue eyes. I cannot say if she saw O’Shea, or merely pretended that she did not see him; but admittedly he was standing behind me. She laid her hand in mine, and: