men of England. It was probable
that Walter Severne might have seen John Denin somewhere, or his
photograph--if only the photograph in that copy of the _Illustrated
London News_, which had labeled him as "dead on the field of honor." If
his scars had not changed him past casual recognition, Severne would be
likely to know him again, and it occurred to Denin that to be
identified in such a way would not be a bad thing. Besides, if the
aviator had not been away from England long, he might possibly have
news to give of Barbara--and Frank--and Kathryn VanKortland.

They were more or less in the same set, in the normal days of peace
which seemed so long ago. He asked permission, when he was got up for
his hour out of bed, to talk to the wounded Englishman, and was told
that he might do so, provided that an English-speaking nurse was near
enough to hear everything they said to each other.

Denin's progress along the ward was slow. He had not been an invalid
eight months for nothing, and the mending of his splintered bones and
torn muscles was hardly short of a miracle, as surgeons and nurses
reminded him frequently, with glee. He moved with a crutch, and one
foot could not yet be allowed to touch ground, though Schwarz gaily
assured him that some fine day he might be as much of a man as ever
again, thanks to his enemies' skill and care. Severne had been told
that an Englishman who had lost his memory through injuries to the
head, and forgotten his own name, was coming to talk to him. Lying flat
on his back with both legs in plaster-of-Paris, the aviator looked up
expectantly; but no light of recognition shone in his eyes when the
tall form in hospital pajamas hobbled into his range of vision.

Denin did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Certainly he
was not surprised, for he had asked for a mirror that morning, and had
studied his marred face during a long, grim moment. From temple to jaw
on the left side it was scarred with a permanent red scar. A white seam
where stitches had been, ran through the right eyebrow. A glancing bit
of shrapnel had cleft his square chin precisely in the center, giving a
queer effect as of a deep dimple which had not been there before August
18th; and his thick black hair was threaded with gray at both temples.

A chair was given to him, in which to sit by the newcomer's bedside.
Severne was very young and, it seemed to Denin in contrast with that
new vision of himself, as beauti