"Don't know what the Chief wants--are you better? You're looking fit. Just heard young Bewley's won the Distinguished Service Cross for bombing Bruges docks--a bright kid always." Walsh rang for John and he went in. "You're fit, I see," said Walsh. "Would you care to tackle a naval job?" "Anything," said John, "rather than be out of it." "I'm sending you to the Dover Patrol. I know little more, how you'll live, on board or ashore. I'll give you a note to Blackrigg at the Admiralty, he'll tell you. Good luck to you, Dean." He was outside again. This time the sea! John called, in the afternoon, on Blackrigg and got his orders, then he made his way to Gieve's in Bond Street for a ready-made uniform; he was leaving for Dover the next day. Outside the Admiralty Arch he heard his name and turned. A girlish figure in grey was calling him. "Tilly!" he exclaimed in glad surprise, "wherever have you sprung from?" "I think I must ask that!" she laughed softly. She was looking very beautiful and he wished he was not in such a hurry; he had much to ask her and she came out of a happy past. "Are you in the same studio?" he asked, in a string of questions. She was thinking how big and strong he had grown, the boy had disappeared in this rather stern looking young man. But he had seen things and was a name in the world. "Oh--no--I'm at our flat," she replied. Then, seeing the enquiry in his face--"Oh, of course, you don't know--we were married a month ago--I'm Mrs. Lindon now." She saw his face brighten with sudden pleasure, and as he expressed his wishes, she could not restrain the tears that gathered in her eyes. "You are--are not unhappy?" he asked, suddenly. "Lindon's all right?--where is he?" he added anxiously, as the tears trickled down her face. She choked, and he took hold of her arm to draw her aside from the inquisitive glances directed to them. "He's--he's not killed?" whispered John hoarsely, apprehensive of the common answer of these days. "No--no," she replied, in a quiet nerveless voice-- "worse." "Worse?" he queried. "He was wounded four months ago--his right hand shot away." They stood still, while the traffic roared about them. Strangely detached from the scene, John watched the confluence of the traffic around King Charles' statue, as it poured out of the Strand, Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall. He saw the pigeons fluttering down upon the placarded base of the Nelson plinth in Trafalgar Square, and over it all, his brain was repeating an awful echo, "His right hand shot away," the hand that had threaded those swift passages of Beethoven, Chopin and Debussy on many memorable nights, one of the hands on which rested his future fame. "Tilly, my poor girl!" he said quietly, as she stood there, frail and tearful. "Let's walk down the Mall--I want to hear all." He took her arm, and led her away from the traffic's vortex. For a space she did not speak, then she smiled wanly.