I had been laid out in an insignificant North Sea scrap, but though the scrap was small the wounds were unpleasant and I was still rather glad to lie easy in a moveable summerhouse on the terrace. I was well on the mend but had walked a little too far that morning and there I lay stretched half asleep in a deck chair, out of the wind and basking in the sun. It was the end of the first week in February, but the day was mild as milk and in my overcoat I felt positively hot. Rooks were cawing over the winter woodlands below the terrace, a faint, restful line of blue hills rose far away beyond, and a gorgeous peacock was strolling sedately on the lawn. I was utterly content to lie there and doze, when I heard a familiar voice. "Right! I see where he is, thank you," it said. "Jack Whiteclett!" I said to myself. It was always pleasant to see Jack, but at that moment a bore to be disturbed. Little did I guess how thorough and final that disturbance was going to be. He appeared in the open door of my shelter, keen eyes, blue serge, three rings, and all complete. I expected a jibe at my beard, but evidently I struck him too sorry an object for mirth. "Well, old chap," said he, "you've earned a rest and I'm glad to see you're taking it." This from Jack was subtily flattering and I did my best to look the wounded hero. "Where did they get you?" he asked. "In my beard," said I, "left side of the jaw. Also right ankle and a souvenir under the ribs." "Lame?" "Still a little, but improving." "The beard is quite becoming," he observed. "Look at it well then while you have the chance for they say they'll let me shave it in a week." "You're well on the mend then?" "Thank the Lord." "Then I needn't give you any more sympathy. Congratulations instead." "On getting a bit of Blighty?" "On getting a bit of ribbon." I opened my eyes, for this was the first I had heard of it. "It isn't out yet," said he, "but I believe it's to be your doom. Somebody has presumably bribed some one at the Admiralty. Uncle Francis tipped me the wink. You've evidently quite made your peace there, Roger, so congratulations again." This hint of a decoration was gratifying enough, and to hear, on top of it, his assurance that my dear old uncle had really opened his heart again nearly upset me disgracefully. I was evidently still a little weaker than I realised. However, Jack was tact itself and the talk turned to every-day matters. He had been sitting beside me for some little time discussing the war, the world, and the devil, before it began to strike me as quite remarkably kind, even for so good a fellow as Jack Whiteclett, to come so far out of his way to look me up. His own wife was at Portsmouth last I heard of her, all his other interests were in London, and yet here he was looking up a cousin in a hospital a couple of hundred miles away from either place. "By the way, how long have you got?" I asked. "A week." I sat up in my deck chair.