She waited their return; waited miserably; visioned Peter fighting for breath as she had seen her brother Jack fighting for breath, years and years ago, in the night-nursery at Harley Street. And she, his wife, could do nothing; must sit there powerless. All the relief at knowing him saved from the firing-line, all the rosy expectations of his coming to Sunflowers, faded like silly dreams. Supposing they had only brought him home to die! Heron Baynet, entering with the quiet unhurried step of the professional consultant, hardly recognized his daughter: her face was so drawn with agony—love-agony of which he had never dreamed her capable. “Am I in time?” he asked, doubting the answer. She rose, tottered towards him. “I don’t know, pater, I don’t know anything. . . .” He caught the panic in her voice, hardened to it. “Don’t be hysterical, Pat. It does you no good: and it may harm Peter. Now, tell me exactly what has happened, and why you telephoned.” At the sound of his voice, nerve came back to her; and she told him of her suspicions, of their confirmation. “He was asleep, you say?” asked Heron Baynet. “Yes.” “On his back, or propped up?” “On his back.” “Oh, you women!” Heron Baynet smiled at his daughter. “You know so much, and yet you know so little. If it had been as bad as you’ve imagined for the last half-hour, do you think he could have slept? Why, Pat, he’d have been bolt upright, breathing fifty to the minute. . . .” She said, very quietly: “But supposing I hadn’t insisted on seeing him. Supposing that idiot of a sister. . . .” A step sounded outside. Captain Territt came in; stiffened at sight of the civilian; was introduced; wilted at mention of the civilian’s name; answered the technical questions with the deference due to a consultant. Yes, the patient had bronchial pneumonia. At least, in Doctor Territt’s opinion, it was bronchial pneumonia. Perhaps Doctor Baynet would prefer to form his own opinion. . . . The two members of the closest Labour Union in England passed out together, leaving Patricia again alone. Supposing they had only brought Peter back to die! . . . § 4 But Peter Jameson did not die. The pneumonia ran its course—two days of choking misery for him, of mad anxiety for his wife—then the passing of crisis—the slow return to painless breath and solid foods. For the first forty-eight hours, Patricia stayed by him. The hospital-staff, knowing her Heron Baynet’s daughter, made full amends: Matron grew kindly; neglectful Sister was unremitting in service. On the third day, Peter said very weakly, “Hello, old thing, what are you doing here?”—and she went back to Harley Street a happy woman.