"No, two," Tietjens said; "but the fellow who was strangling me was what I wanted to tell you about. He let out a number of ear-piercing shrieks and lots of orderlies came and pulled him off me and sat all over him. Then he began to shout '_Faith_'! He shouted: 'Faith! . . . Faith! . . . Faith! . . .' at intervals of two seconds, as far as I could tell by my pulse, until four in the morning, when he died. . . . I don't know whether it was a religious exhortation or a woman's name, but I disliked him a good deal because he started my tortures, such as they were. . . . There had been a girl I knew called Faith. Oh, not a love affair: the daughter of my father's head gardener, a Scotsman. The point is that every time he said Faith I asked myself 'Faith . . . Faith what?' I couldn't remember the name of my father's head gardener." Sylvia, who was thinking of other things, asked: "What _was_ the name?" Tietjens answered: "I don't know, I don't know to this day. . . . The point is that when I knew that I didn't know _that_ name, I was as ignorant, as _uninstructed_, as a new-born babe and much more worried about it. . . . The Koran says--I've got as far as K in my reading of the Encyclopædia Britannica every afternoon at Mrs. Wannop's--'The strong man when smitten is smitten in his pride!' . . . Of course I got King's Regs, and the M.M.L. and Infantry Field Training and all the A.C.I.s to date by heart very quickly. And that's all a British officer is really encouraged to know. . . ." "Oh, Christopher!" Sylvia said. "_You_ read that Encyclopædia; it's pitiful. You used to despise it so." "That's what's meant by 'smitten in his pride,'" Tietjens said. "Of course what I read or hear now I remember. . . . But I haven't got to M, much less V. That was why I was worried about Metternich and the Congress of Vienna. I _try_ to remember things on my own, but I haven't yet done so. You see it's as if a certain area of my brain had been wiped white. Occasionally one name suggests another. You noticed, when I got Metternich it suggested Castlereagh and Wellington--and even other names. . . . But that's what the Department of Statistics will get me on. When they fire me out. The real reason will be that I've served. But they'll pretend it's because I've no more general knowledge than is to be found in the Encyclopædia: or two-thirds or more or less--according to the duration of the war. . . . Or, of course, the real reason will be that I won't fake statistics to dish the French with. They asked me to, the other day, as a holiday task. And when I refused you should have seen their faces." "Have you _really_," Sylvia asked, "lost two brothers in action?" "Yes," Tietjens answered. "Curly and Longshanks. You never saw them because they were always in India. And they weren't noticeable. . . ." "_Two_!" Sylvia said. "I only wrote to your father about one called Edward. And your sister Caroline. In the same letter. . . ."