“Torrington?” Francis thought the name over. “Yes. I remember him. He was there the night I dined with them. Where did you meet him? Is he on leave too?” “No. He’s home for good. He never ought to have gone out, you know. But he insisted—and broke down. You men are so stupid about that sort of thing. I suppose _you’ll_ want to do something again as soon as your leg’s right. . . .” “I wonder,” said Francis. “You see, I’ll never be any good at my own job again. A man with a limp is too easily spotted. And as for office jobs, there seem to be enough stay-at-home heroes without me. . . .” “I wonder why it is”—Patricia lit herself a cigarette—“that you are all so bitter against the people who stay at home. Everybody can’t go to the front.” “It isn’t _everybody_ who wants to,” commented Francis acridly. She changed the topic; produced the Christmas present she had brought—a Whytwarth fountain-pen, gold-mounted and of enormous ink-capacity. He eyed it doubtfully at first; till she shewed him the simplicity of its action. Then he began to take professional interest; screwed it up and down again; tested the nib on the fly-leaf of one of the many books at his bed-side. “By Jove, Pat,” he said at last, “I believe you’ve discovered the only fountain-pen. . . . And I never thought you a clever woman!” Remembering old animosities, she blushed at that, and they laughed together like two children. “And when does Peter arrive?” he asked. “Late, I’m afraid. Not before midnight anyway.” “Are you going to meet him?” “Of course.” He began to tease her aimlessly; called her the “expectant bride.” “Do you know, Pat, that I believe you’re madly in love with that cousin of mine. After nine years of matrimony, too. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” Said Patricia, arranging her veil for the street: “I shouldn’t chaff people _too much_ about being in love, if I were you, Francis”: and with a meaning glance at Beatrice’s photograph on the mantelpiece, departed. § 3 As Patricia paced up and down the cold, scarce-lit platform, the great vault of Victoria Station seemed like a tomb. Already the leave-train from France had been announced. But it was half-past two on Christmas morning; and, except for herself and two ordered taxis, none waited. England had not yet troubled to organize any reception for her weary fighting-men. They would arrive, as Patricia and a few voluntary motor-drivers had so often seen them arrive, cheerlessly, unfed, unwelcomed, to sleep the night as best they might in fireless waiting-rooms, or tramp the streets till dawn. “Didn’t expect to see you here tonight, mum,” said a porter who knew her of old, touching his cap. She told him she was waiting for her husband; and he bustled off in search of information. “Another five minutes, mum. They must have had a bad crossing. She didn’t get to Folkestone till nearly one o’clock.”