eant endless delays; and she
had been anxious about her father. The Italian surgeons were very proud
of him, he wrote. They had had him X-rayed before and after; and beyond
a slight lameness which gave him, he thought, a touch of distinction,
there was no flaw that the most careful scrutiny would be likely to
detect. Any day, now, he expected to be discharged. Mary had married an
old sweetheart. She had grown restless in the country with nothing to
do, and, at the suggestion of some friends, had gone to Bristol to help
in a children's hospital; and there they had met once more.

Neil Singleton, after serving two years in a cholera hospital at Baghdad,
had died of the flu in Dover twenty-fours hours after landing. Madge was
in Palestine. She had been appointed secretary to a committee for the
establishment of native schools. She expected to be there for some
years, she wrote. The work was interesting, and appealed to her.

Flossie 'phoned her from Paddington Station, the second day, and by luck
she happened to be in. Flossie had just come up from Devonshire. Sam
had "got through," and she was on her way to meet him at Hull. She had
heard of Joan's arrival in London from one of Carleton's illustrated
dailies. She brought the paper with her. They had used the old
photograph that once had adorned each week the _Sunday Post_. Joan
hardly recognized herself in the serene, self-confident young woman who
seemed to be looking down upon a world at her feet. The world was strong
and cruel, she had discovered; and Joans but small and weak. One had to
pretend that one was not afraid of it.

Flossie had joined every society she could hear of that was working for
the League of Nations. Her hope was that it would get itself established
before young Frank grew up.

"Not that I really believe it will," she confessed. "A draw might have
disgusted us all with fighting. As it is, half the world is dancing at
Victory balls, exhibiting captured guns on every village green, and
hanging father's helmet above the mantelpiece; while the other half is
nursing its revenge. Young Frank only cares for life because he is
looking forward to one day driving a tank. I've made up my mind to burn
Sam's uniform; but I expect it will end in my wrapping it up in lavender
and hiding it away in a drawer. And then there will be all the books and
plays. No self-respecting heroine, for the next ten years will dream of
marrying anyone but