He came back in time for lunch, very out of breath but very delighted with his achievement; announced that, “Agoraphobia had been bloodily repulsed.” “And how was Francis?” smiled Patricia, forgetting her usual “Language, Peter!” in excitement at this tangible proof of recovery. “Francis!”—Peter hesitated a perceptible second. “To tell you the truth, Pat, I’ve been rather bothered about Francis. He’s brooding about something or other. His legs, I suppose. _Have_ you noticed anything?” “No,” lied Patricia. “I haven’t noticed anything.” “May be only my imagination,” decided Peter. “But I don’t like the look of him somehow. He ought to consult that father of yours. However, he seemed better this morning. He’s got a new bee in his bonnet—America.” “What about America?” Patricia pricked up her ears. “Well, as far as I could make out, this submarine campaign—according to Francis—is going to bring America in. Once America comes in—also according to Francis—the war’s over; the English-speaking races are re-united; and we’re in for a hundred years of peace.” “Oh, is that all?” said Patricia—who was thinking of Beatrice Cochrane. “Yes, that’s all.” Peter did not tell his wife that his “bother” about his cousin had not been allayed, but rather accentuated, by the phrase, “If I could just live to see that come off, old boy, I’d die a happy man,” with which Francis had closed the topic. . . . § 4 March cleared the snow from the hills. Already, the leafless trees seemed hinting of springtime; already Patricia’s crocuses made an orange carpet under the walnut-tree. But Peter Jameson was not thinking of crocuses. As leave-time grew shorter, so thoughts turned more and more to the Brigade. Sandiland, now a Major, wrote a long gossipy letter. Could Peter get back to Beer Battery? Had Peter heard about the new Army Artillery Brigades, about six-gun batteries? Had Peter seen Lodden? Of course, the show wasn’t what it used to be—still, some of the old gang were carrying on. Conway would be glad of a sixth for poker. Charlie Henry had got his second pip. Merrilees sent his kind regards. Purves was home—Sandiland didn’t think he’d come out again. The “Brat” was acting Adjutant. Mr. Black had been given a commission. “And R.,” the letter concluded, “is playing up for a Brigadiership. He’ll get it too.” The war had seemed a thousand miles from Sunflowers, but Sandiland’s blurred handwriting brought it back with a rush. Pictures—Heron Baynet had taught his son-in-law all about brain-pictures—formed themselves in Peter’s mind. He saw war again, the whole nauseating fascinating panorama of war. Did he want to go back to it? “Not much!” said our Mr. Jameson.