Then he called on Mrs. Graham, for he remembered that her boy was a midshipman stationed with the Grand Fleet; perhaps they could meet. Her flat, with its exquisite taste, cast the old spell upon him, even before she came into the room. There was something so intimate in the books, cushions, curtains, rugs and china, something that revealed the hand of Mrs. Graham. She greeted him with great pleasure, made him talk, and as he did so, he sat wondering at her beauty, the lovely order of her hair, the music of her voice. She had just had a letter from Muriel. That opened the flood-gates and for an hour a wonderful little nurse near Amiens was the sole topic of conversation. "It's more than a year since I saw her," he said, "and I am getting more desperate every day." "You poor thing!" smiled Mrs. Graham. "This war is very hard for young lovers; I pity them most of all. But she writes?" "Now and then--and wonderful letters too. I'm going to make extracts and publish them." "You mercenary man!" she laughed. The hour fled. He had to go. She pressed a little autographed copy of Flecker's Poems into his hand. He could smell the particular perfume she used, for an hour afterwards. It was not until John was seated in the train, speeding northwards through the night, that he had time to open his letters. There was one from Marsh, in a base hospital, wounded but cheerful and recommended for the M.C. "for conspicuous bravery in attack." "_Just fancy how all the 'brave lad' stick-at-homes will be writing to congratulate me on coming to my senses and showing my courage! Ough! Scissors, it makes me sick. One hundred glad-eyed youngsters were minced by steel in that attack--we gained eighty yards and lost it all an hour afterwards. What idiots we humans are!_" A very short letter from Muriel. She was resting after a nervous breakdown. How long was the war going to last? It was very wonderful being in the midst of things, but sometimes she wanted to cry out; was Europe quite indifferent to all the suffering? "_Oh, John, if only we could just romp into tea at 'The Croft' as in those old days, with Dad and Mr. Ribble discussing the Insurance Bill, and poor Tod banging in, covered with motor grease, and you and Bobbie eating up all the bread and butter. It is awful to think it will never be like that again... I feel ages old... If this--_" Here came a break in the letter.