“Exposure be sugared. He was picked up the same day. . . . By the way, has he ever spoken to you about consumption?” “Yes. Twice. He said the children ought to sleep in the open air.” “Consumption is one of the particular fears he can’t quite control. That, I’m certain of. I wonder what his other fears are—or aren’t.” For all her anxiety, Patricia could not restrain a feeling of relief. One thing at least, her father’s explanation had taught her: that she might still win her husband’s love—“even if he is a coward,” she said aloud. “A coward!”—Heron Baynet snapped at the word as he had snapped at the suggestion of madness. “A coward! Were you afraid before Primula was born?” “A little,” she confessed. “Well, multiply that fear by infinity—and you will have some idea of what Peter is going through. And remember, you _knew_; he knows nothing, except that he is afraid, and that to be afraid is to be”—Heron Baynet hesitated over the word—“caddish.” Silently, they began to retrace their steps homewards. Already, light was failing among the trees. It seemed to Patricia that she walked in cold shadows—helpless. “Can nothing be done?” she said at last. “Without his willingness to be treated—nothing.” “Will he have to go back to the front in March?” For the first time that afternoon, her father laughed. “Not if I know anything about Medical Boards, Pat. He wouldn’t last ten days.” The doctor grew serious. “But that doesn’t help us much. The damage to his mind has got to be repaired somehow. _You_ might start the process; I can’t.” “I?” The monosyllable carried infinite query. “Yes. You, and you only. Get his confidence; make him tell you—under pledge of secrecy—why he carries that gun; why he’s afraid of consumption for the children. Make him talk to you about the day he was wounded—about the horrors he’s seen.” “Can’t you talk to him, pater? He never opens his mouth about that sort of thing to me.”—Her voice faltered.—“We’re not such good friends as we used to be, pater.” Heron Baynet’s voice did not falter. “I know you’re not, Pat. But you’ve got to be. These repressions are killing Peter. Unless somebody can break them down, I won’t be answerable for the consequences. It’s no use my talking to him, he’d freeze up at once. Whereas you, you’re his wife.” “But, Pater. . . .” “Damn it, girl,”—the doctor’s voice rose to fury—“can’t you see that this is a matter of life or death. You _must_ make him talk. Make him drunk if you like—get drunk yourself—make love to him as if you were his mistress: but for God’s sake, make him talk.” Patricia blushed scarlet; quickened her pace. “And then?” she asked.