Then the Armistice. And a night in a Paris hotel when he was a dead man if it had not been for that imperative command of a mind that willed a body to defy dissolution. He had stirred somehow that sluggish heart into beating again, and he had called a doctor. Later he consulted specialists. They could tell him little; they could do less. His heart was organically perfect but functionally weak. They all agreed on that. It might stop any time. Nothing could be done. He would either die very suddenly, or slowly his heart would strengthen, build new tissue, be strong again. He coaxed Mary to settle down. He lay there beside her in the dusky room, where feeble shadows from arc lights swung by the roaring wind made flickering patterns on the wall, and he thought something like this: Heart failure is failure of the heart to pulsate. Pulsation of the heart keeps the blood circulating (mechanics applied to the body) and the passage of the blood in and out of the heart keeps it pulsating. When the heart stops beating the blood stops moving. Hence start the blood moving and it must pass through the heart. The heart being organically perfect would pulsate mechanically--until--or unless---- Would he ever dare sleep again? Over and over that polysyllabic phrase repeated itself until he grew weary and his eyes closed in the sleep he would have denied if he could. Organically perfect but functionally weak! CHAPTER XIX At breakfast Rod was introduced to his son, Roderick Thorn Norquay, who lacked a few weeks of being four years old. Born in London, hurried home in 1917 when every unnecessary mouth England had to feed brought her so much nearer want, Roderick junior had no memory of his father. Rod marveled that two years could change a toddler into a sturdy boy in knickers who could be tentatively intrigued by gold braid, red tabs, and a shiny brown belt. They were both self-conscious enough to afford Mary a smile at their guarded approach to each other. "It's funny to see you two," she said, when the youngster had marched away in care of a nurse girl. "You're like boxers--sparring for an opening." "I suppose so," Rod returned. "I don't see the joke myself." "Don't be so touchy, old dear," she wheedled. "You know what I mean." "Not touchy." He smiled. "Just a bit off-color. We've missed such a devil of a lot that we can't catch up with. Having to present myself cautiously to my own kid reminds me of that. Four years wasted--worse than wasted. And we're only two out of millions." "Wasted?" "Absolutely." "Then you don't think it was worth the fight? Belgium, destroying an arrogant militarism, saving the world for democracy, making further wars impossible--all those high ideals?" Rod looked at her. Her face was placid as a shaded pool, expressionless. Her tone had been without accent--no key to her faith in those matters.