Alone, he fought the problem out again: and decision came to him, clear-cut, obvious. She was twenty, rich, beautiful: he, a cripple—and a pauper cripple into the bargain. Leaving God out of the question, to take her in marriage would not be the act of a gentleman. . . . Chivalrous, stubborn, a fool if you will but no weakling, he traced the answer to her cablegram: “Much better thanks writing.” * * * * * In the middle of December, 1915, they shipped him—still a “stretcher-case”—to England. § 2 In those early days, the Endsleigh Gardens Hospital for officers was a place of easy discipline, comely V.A.D. nurses and frolicsome patients. Francis, still unable to walk, could not be frolicsome: but they gave him a room to himself, a tiny room, linoleum-carpeted, high up on the sixth floor; and in a funny introspective way, he was happy. The “faithful Prout,” overjoyed at his master’s return, insinuated himself somehow or other into the Hospital; brought meals; ran errands as of yore. A new doctor substituted “B.I.P.”—a saffron ointment of bismuth, iodoform and petroleum—for the Carrel-Dakin treatment; and pain departed. His kit arrived from France. He began to read, omnivorously, old books and new: dreamed even of working. But no poem came, only vague inspirations which refused to materialize. Beatrice wrote—a chatty letter; was answered in the same strain. And, of course, there were visitors, flowers, cigarettes, well-wishes from admirers. For, among a limited circle, Francis enjoyed “celebrity.” . . . It was early afternoon of Christmas Eve. He lay in bed, wicker cage over his legs, propped on multitudinous pillows. Through the open window by the glowing fire-place, he could see the high hills of outer London, tree-fringed, blue against gray skies. He had been alone all day, visioning once again that great poem of Anglo-Saxondom which always eluded him. For now that he had—as he thought—definitely put aside all hope of Beatrice, this belief in a Federation of the English-speaking races, with which she had inspired him, seemed somehow a consolation. “Mrs. Jameson to see you, sir,” announced Prout. Patricia followed the little man into the room. She had been driving the car: and the dark motoring-furs accentuated the blond tallness of her. He had thought, once or twice, that the strain of Peter’s absence was telling on his cousin’s wife, graving little lines round eyes and chin. But today she looked young, radiant. “Peter’s coming home,” she said. “On leave.” “When?” “Tonight. Isn’t it splendid?” They talked Peter for a while. Prout brought them tea on a little wicker-table. “I heard all about his Brigade the other day,” said Patricia, bringing a second cup to the bedside. “Captain Torrington—you met him I think, he’s a V.C.—told me. They must have had a dreadful time at Loos.”