The tranquillity of his new life, despite the atmosphere of constant vigilance, brought a great calm to John. He had been a silent sufferer in the appalling devastation, human and material, he had witnessed in Flanders, and under the fearful strain of the Dover vigil. Life on board was industrious but regular, and with the cheerful companionship of these well-balanced philosophers around him, he began to feel less acutely sensitive to the tragic action of the world drama. In a way he felt uneasy. He was not quite taking his share of the burden laid on the shoulders of youth. He would have liked to stand by the side of Vernley and Marsh and a dozen others. Here he was a spectator, waiting for something that might never happen, something which he hoped never would happen, for the event was fraught with immense and appalling possibilities. Often John stared, hypnotised by the sleek quiet power of the long guns, that moved so slowly in the morning air, like cautious antennæ. Yet swift destruction could pour out of those harmless nozzles under the obedience of hidden forces within the turrets. It seemed incredible that floating mammoths such as these ships might dissolve in air under the battery of similar guns. But as the weeks wore on, eventless save for rumours and the variations of discipline, the idea of war receded, though occasionally incoming destroyers or drifters brought grim little stories of short encounters outside their tranquil anchorage. They read the newspapers and closely followed the vicissitudes of the war, now spread to many fronts, in many climes, and affecting almost all races on the earth, either directly or indirectly. And the incredible was happening, the successive war prophets, the weekly commentators, fell into oblivion, for this war went on despite all the carefully enunciated reasons why it could not go on. According to statistics, the German legions had been wiped out many times over, but still they pressed hard the defending line, changed from the defensive to the offensive with astounding virility for an army pronounced exhausted and emaciated. Letters from the front brought John into close touch with realities. Muriel now wrote less frequently. Her hospital work grew heavier; he could discern the heartache underlying some of her words, sometimes an impatient note of protest against the politicians gaining wordy victories, while wrecked humanity poured into the hospitals to be botched up and start out again, until the human shuttlecocks fell, never to rise. Then one day, a rare event, a letter from Vernley, a poor writer, yet one whose disjointed chronicles were eagerly read. John opened the letter in the messroom where he had been talking with the ship's doctor, and read through it slowly; then on the fourth page his heart seemed to stop.