He had seen and read of the death of all his friends and come out of the shambles with one arm, and no observable future. Then without effort or warning he had been admitted into work that moved nations; and into a friendship that saved his heart. For three years he had held Arcady against all the enemies of life. And now, young, poor and maimed, he was master of his happiness, and owner of Mambles. It was enough to turn the head of a young man of any imagination, but it had not turned John’s. He behaved at Mambles as he had behaved at Mons. He looked about steadily for his duty and did it. Guns, disaster, and the sheer edge of danger had never deflected John at Mons; roses, young love, and luxury did not deflect him at Mambles. John felt that it was his plain duty to invite his sister-in-law to stay with his wife, and he invited her. It was in the Dutch garden that John had seen and accepted the duty which in a fortnight had changed an angel into Elise, and Paradise into Mambles. The moon shone big and yellow over the Dutch garden, it gave a haunting ghost light to the pale pink geraniums and the standard heliotrope rising in mauve clusters above the borders. The air was drunk with sweetness. It seemed as if time had consented to stand still and acknowledge the permanence of joy. Elise leaning on John’s arm said suddenly, “And John, when may I have Hermione to stay?” John had felt a momentary pang at her words, because he was so happy that he felt it an inconvenience to recognise the existence of other people. Then he readjusted himself to the more perfect pleasure of pleasing Elise. “Whenever you like, dearest,” he replied bravely if untruthfully. “Tell her we shall both be delighted to have her.” Then one of them sighed. When John told Mr. Brett what he had done, his father-in-law took his cigar out of his mouth and said in measured accents, “Well, John Sterling, I guess you feel you’ve done your duty. When a man does the plumb foolishest thing he can lay his hands on, naturally he has to find the highest motives for doing it; and a high motive is as easy to find as a barn door fowl; but it won’t lay any eggs for you. You can run round expecting your conscience to applaud you, and maybe your conscience will. I notice a man’s conscience comes when he calls it as quick as a cat after milk, but don’t come round for the approval of Oliver P. Brett! “No, Sir! I respect a lunatic because he’s dangerous—but I don’t respect a normal man when he starts whistling for trouble; he can get all he wants without whistling.” John looked haughty and said nothing. He had been so much admired lately by Elise that he felt whatever he did must be right. Neither John nor Elise objected to Mr. Brett’s presence in their household. Mr. Brett’s personality was a strong one, but it was singularly unobtrusive. He lived in the library which was a room John didn’t like, and in odd corners of the garden where the lovers never saw him.