“He’s in the drawing-room, Miss,” the orderly smiled back at her. (She had been there nearly every day for five months; and the orderly knew her name perfectly. But she looked young, and she looked attractive, and she always came to see the same officer. So he called her “Miss” instead of “Madam.” In days gone by, when he had been a skate-fitter at Olympia, the little trick had earned Private Johnson, R.A.M.C.,[14] many tips!) Patricia walked swiftly through the hall—(the Endsleigh Gardens Hospital had been a hotel before the war)—into the ornate and over-furnished drawing room; found Francis alone. He had been “up” only three weeks; rose to greet her with difficulty, supporting himself first on the arms of his chair, then on two rubber-shod sticks. “Morning, Pat,” he said. “I’m all ready, you see.” The months of illness had told on him, graven lines of pain on his temples, at the corners of his mouth. His hair, too, had grayed a little above close-set ears. His eyes seemed to have grown darker. But his clothes—he wore mufti in sublime defiance of Regulations—were immaculate as ever. “They’ll never let you out of the door in that get-up,” pronounced Patricia—eyeing the “Barnard” motoring-cap, the blue-and-black old Etonian tie, the loose fitting brown over-coat. “Wonderful what one can do in this place if one only smiles at the sisters, bullies one’s doctor, and gives half-crowns to the orderlies,” laughed Francis. He shuffled awkwardly across the impeding carpet, through the swing-doors Patricia opened for him. Prout emerged from the basement by the elevator-shaft; and together the two helped the invalid down the steps into the car. Patricia swung the crank-shaft; climbed to her seat; switched gear-lever into “first”; let in the clutch. Watching them as they glided out of sight, round the corner of the square, Prout’s thoughts turned to bygone and merrier days. “Poor Mister Francis,” muttered the old man. “And him that was always so fond of dancing. . . .” ----- [14] Royal Army Medical Corps. § 3 “. . . And what perfectly-appointed country residences do we inspect today, Pat?” asked “poor Master Francis” as they threaded the traffic of Tottenham Court Road. “Look at them if you like. They’re in that pocket.” Francis lifted the leather flap in the door, which she indicated; pulled out and opened a long envelope; began to study the house-agent’s slips. “Berkshire,” he read out. “Berkshire again. Oxfordshire, border of Berkshire. Berkshire, border of Oxfordshire. . . . None of them sound very promising, Pat.” “No,” she admitted, “but I like the idea of living in that part of the world. My mother was Oxfordshire, you know. Besides, we might _find_ something.” “I don’t know why you’re so keen about the country all of a sudden, Pat,” went on Francis. “What about your lonely leave-men. Who’ll motor them home to their wives?”