But as this is only indirectly the tale of Francis and Beatrice, we must not analyse them too deeply. It suffices that they are utterly happy in each other; that Love, which is finer than reason, does not blind but rather gives them clear vision. They know, as they tolerate, each other’s faults: and though Fame has not yet quite come to Glen Cottage, they feel they can already hear the beating of his wings. . . . And if they are a trifle “cranky” on the subject of “Anglo-Saxondom,” if they set the unity of the English-speaking races above the pipe-dreams of the internationalists,—that blame, if blame it be, their very love-story excuses. . . . § 2 All through his cousin’s wedding in the little church at Arlsfield, Peter—who gave away the bride—felt conscious of a reasonless but ever-growing depression. It seemed to him as though—Francis married—his last man-friend would vanish. Almost he grudged the veiled girl her obvious happiness. . . . And this feeling of depression did not wear off as the easy April days slipped by. Rather, it increased. All the man in Peter resented ill-health; resented the lack of male companionship; resented idleness. And idleness, Heron Baynet assured him, was imperative: two hours of manual labour in the garden and one trip to London about finance, proved the correctness of Heron Baynet’s contention. He began to worry about the future. His pension, thirty shillings a week subject to revision, barely paid a third of his assurance premiums—the children must be sent to school—the expenses of Sunflowers rose hourly with the tide of war-extravagance which had swept over England. “Things can’t go on like this,” exactly represents Peter’s attitude. He decided to go back into the tobacco-business—and reversed decision as soon as reached. The mere thought of London nauseated him. Somehow, he could no longer imagine himself at a desk. . . . Patricia, consulted on this point, agreed so strenuously that Peter became suspicious. “Why shouldn’t I go back?” he remonstrated. “It’s the only trade I know. The Imperial would give me a job tomorrow.” . . . Nevertheless, he discarded the idea. The tobacco-business, like the Army, lay behind him. He was out of the one as he was out of the other. But memories of both still haunted his mind. Of the two lives he had lived, he missed the military one most. Maurice Beresford, Elkins, Schornstein and the Bramsons seemed petty figures compared with the Weasel and General Blacklock, Conway and Sandiland and Charlie Henry. But letters from the Brigade dwindled and dwindled, soon ceased altogether; till only an occasional poem by Purves, who continued his conquering campaign in the Press, and Alice Stark’s gossipy letters to Patricia, reminded of khaki.