"Yes, François," said Lethbridge, slowly, "otherwise——" "They hurt their mouths, M’sieur; and that hurts those who love them. And sometimes it’s not the youngster’s fault." The next moment he was bowing some new arrivals to a table, while Hugh Lethbridge stared thoughtfully across the crowded room to where the orchestra was preparing to give their next selection. "Sometimes it’s not the youngster’s fault." He took the letter out of his pocket and read it through again, though every word of it was branded in letters of fire on his brain. "I hope this won’t give you too much of a shock," it began, "but I can’t live with you any more." "Too much of a shock!" Dear Heavens! It had been like a great, stunning blow from which he was still dazedly trying to recover. "Nothing seems to count with you except your business and making money." Hugh’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. "You grudge me every penny I spend; and then refuse to let me have my own friends." Oh, Colt, Colt, how brutally untrue a half truth can be! "Everything has been going wrong lately, and so I think it’s better to have a clean cut. There’s no good you asking me to come back.—DORIS." Once more Hugh Lethbridge stared across the room. A waiter placed the new bottle on the table, but he took no notice. His mind was busy with the past, and his untasted food grew cold on the plate in front of him. It was in the summer of 1917 that Hugh Lethbridge, being on sick leave from France, met Doris Lashley for the first time. She was helping at the hospital where Hugh came to rest finally; and having once set eyes on her, he made no effort to hurry his departure unduly. The contrast between talking to Doris and wallowing in the mud-holes of Passchendaele was very pleasant; and in due course, assisted by one or two taxi-rides and some quiet dinners _à deux_, he proposed and was accepted. In October he married her; in November he returned to France, after a fortnight’s honeymoon spent in Devonshire.