Nan flushed suddenly. She knew of one man who had taken no fighting part. Maryon Rooke's health was apparently more delicate than anyone had imagined, and his artistes hands were, so he explained, an asset to the country, not to be risked like hands made of commoner clay. This holding back on his part had been the thing that had tortured Nan more than anything else during the long years of the war, in spite of the reasons he had offered in explanation, not least of which was the indispensability of his services at Whitehall--in which he genuinely believed. "It's simply a choice between using brains or brawn as cannon-fodder," he used to say. "I'm serving with my brain instead of with my body." And Nan, attracted by Rooke's odd fascination, had womanlike, tried to believe this and to thrust aside any thoughts that were disloyal to her faith in him. But, glancing now at the clever, clean-cut face of the man beside her, with its whimsical, sensitive mouth and steady eyes, she realised that he, at least, had kept nothing back--had offered brain and body equally to his country. "And now? You look quite sound in wind and limb still," she commented. "Oh, I've been one of the lucky ones. I've only got a game leg as my souvenir of hell. I just limp a bit, that's all." "I'm so sorry you've a souvenir of any kind," said Nan quickly, with the spontaneousness which was part of her charm. "Now that's very nice of you," answered the man. "There's no reason why you should burden yourself with the woes of a perfect stranger." "I don't call you a perfect stranger," replied Nan serenely. "I call you a Good Samaritan." "I'm generally known as Peter Mallory," he interjected modestly. "And you know my name. I think that constitutes an introduction." "Thank you," he said simply. Nan laughed. "The thanks are all on my side," she answered. "Here we are at Paddington, and it's entirely due to you that I shall catch my train." The taxi pulled up and stood panting. "Shares, please!" said Nan, when he had paid the driver. For an instant a look of swift negation flashed across Mallory's face, then he replied composedly: "Your share is two shillings." Nan tendered a two-shilling piece, blessing him in her heart for refraining from putting her under a financial obligation to a stranger. He accepted the money quite simply, and turning away to speak to a porter, he tucked the two-shilling piece into his waistcoat pocket, while an odd, contemplative little smile curved his lips. There was some slight confusion in the mind of the porter, who exhibited a zealous disposition to regard the arrivals as one party and to secure them seats in the same compartment. Mallory, unheard by Nan, enlightened him quietly. "I see, sir. You want a smoker?" Mallory nodded and tipped him recklessly. "That's it. You find the lady a comfortable corner seat. I'll look after myself." He turned back to Nan.