I don't know how Maitland took the news. I don't know what he can have thought of his grisly letters when he saw them again. But I do know that he knocked up and had to go away. There is one thing I admire about Barrett. He did not pretend he did not feel Maitland's illness, though I believe it was only gout. He did not pretend he was not ashamed of himself. He never would allow that we were equally guilty. And when Maitland came back rather thinner and graver, we all noticed that he treated him with respect. And he never jeered at him again. Maitland regained his old self-complacency in time and was dreadfully mysterious and Maitlandish about the whole affair. I have seen Barrett wince when he made vague allusions to the responsibility of being the object of a great passion, and the discipline of suffering. But he _had_ suffered in a way. He really had. And when the Bursar's wife died Maitland was genuinely kind. He shot off lots of platitudes of course; but on previous occasions when he had said he had been stirred to the depths he only meant to the depth of a comfortable arm-chair. Now it was platitudes and actions mixed. He actually heaved himself out of his armchair, and exerted himself on behalf of the poor, dreary little bounder, took him walks, and sat with him in an evening--his sacred evenings. To think of Maitland putting himself out for anyone! It seemed a miracle. After a time it was obvious that the incident had added a new dignity and happiness to his life. He settled down so to speak, into being an old bachelor, and grew a beard, and did not worry about women any more. He felt he had had his romance. I don't know how it was, but we all three felt a kind of lurking respect for him after what had happened. You would have thought that what we knew must have killed such a feeling, especially as it wasn't there before. But it didn't. On the contrary. And Maitland felt the change, and simply froze on to us three. He liked us all, but Barrett best. The Dark Cottage The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed Lets in new light through chinks that time has made. _Edmund Waller._ PART I 1915 John Damer was troubled for his country and his wife and his child. At first he had been all patriotism and good cheer. "It will be a short war and a bloody one. The Russians will be in Berlin by Christmas. We shall sweep the German flag from the seas. We are bound to win." He had stood up in his place in the House and had said something of that kind, and had been cheered. But that was a year ago. Now the iron had entered into England's soul, and into his soul. He had long since volunteered, and he was going to France to-morrow after an arduous training. He had come home to say good-bye. He might never come back. He might never see his Catherine, his beautiful young wife, again, or his son Michael, that minute, bald, amazing new comer with the waving clenched fists, and the pink soles as soft as Catherine's cheek.