Phillip was sitting, pillow-propped, in a huge armchair beside the bed. He wore a flowered dressing-gown of Chester’s, a thing of vivid red and lavender and green, and his pale face looked whiter by contrast. Beside him, on the little table, a bunch of fragrant violets thrust their long, graceful stems into a glass. They were the only flowers in the room, and even they would have been banished with the rest by the nurse had not Phillip rebelled. There was a card leaning against the glass――a large, square, important-looking card, bearing thirteen small, severe letters. Phillip was looking sentimentally from card to blossoms when the door opened again. “Here’s some one to see you, Phil,” Margaret announced. She passed through into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Phillip turned his head languidly, and at sight of the caller the blood rushed into his face and then receded as quickly, leaving it paler than before. John took one thin hand and spoke naturally and simply as he gripped it. “Phil, old man, this _is_ good. You’ve had us rather worried, you know.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?” “Better, thank you,” Phillip answered, rather stiffly. “It’s powerful slow work, though.” “It must seem so. But your sister tells me that she expects you to be fit to make the trip home by the middle of next week. You’ll soon pick up at Elaine, I’ll bet. Why, hang it, Phil, if I were on my last legs and some kind person shipped me down there to your place I’d be out hunting the traction engine in a week!” Phillip smiled, but the smile didn’t last. He put his hands together and began interlacing the fingers, just as Margaret had done, John thought, on the porch at Elaine that morning. “That’s a jolly smelly bunch of violets,” said John. “Yes, they’re very sweet.” “Who sent them?” He leaned forward and read the card. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Phil!” “It’s――it’s no secret,” said Phillip. “Kingsford’s sister, Phil?” “Yes.” “I saw her once; an awfully nice-looking girl.” “Yes. They’ve been mighty good to me, the Kingsfords.” “They’re nice people,” said John. “Have you seen Everett?” “No; you’re the first one――that’s been here――that I’ve seen, you know.” “I see. Chester Baker has been in a terrible state of funk over you, Phil. He told me one day that it was his fault that you were ill, and that if you ‘pegged out’――to use his own elegant expression――he was going to China. I don’t know why China particularly; he didn’t say. But maybe he was going to turn Boxer.” “It wasn’t his fault,” said Phillip. Then, after a pause: “The fellows have been mighty kind, John; whole stacks of them left cards and fruit and things, Margey says――fellows I didn’t know very well, some of them.” He paused again. “And you――Margey says you’ve been awfully good to her――and me; and――” he leaned forward and arranged Betty’s card in a new position, a flush of colour in his cheeks――“thank you,” he muttered.