the convent into the war's terrific
tragedy, wherein maiden romantic fancies were scorched in the tender
bud. Only her honest traditions of marriage remained. Of love she knew
nothing. She leaped beyond it, seeking, seeking. She would never see
him again. There she met the Absolute. But he had done _that_ for
her--that which, she knew not why, but she knew--he would do for no
other woman. The Splendour of it would be her everlasting possession.

She undressed that night, proud, dry-eyed, heroical, and went to bed,
and listened to the rhythmic tramp of the sentry across the gateway
below her window, and suddenly a lump rose in her throat and she fell
to crying miserably.

CHAPTER XVII

"How are you feeling, Trevor?"

"Nicely, thank you, Sister."

"Glad to be in Blighty again?"

Doggie smiled.

"Good old Blighty!"

"Leg hurting you?"

"A bit, Sister," he replied with a little grimace.

"It's bound to be stiff after the long journey, but we'll soon fix it
up for you."

"I'm sure you will," he said politely.

The nurse moved on. Doggie drew the cool clean sheet around his
shoulders and gave himself up to the luxury of bed--real bed. The
morning sunlight poured through the open windows, attended by a
delicious odour which after a while he recognized as the scent of the
sea. Where he was he had no notion. He had absorbed so much of Tommy's
philosophy as not to care. He had arrived with a convoy the night
before, after much travel in ambulances by land and sea. If he had
been a walking case, he might have taken more interest in things; but
the sniper's bullet in his thigh had touched the bone, and in spite of
being carried most tenderly about like a baby, he had suffered great
pain and longed for nothing and thought of nothing but a permanent
resting-place. Now, apparently, he had found one, and looking about
him he felt peculiarly content. He seemed to have seen no cleaner,
whiter, brighter place in the world than this airy ward, swept by the
sea-breeze. He counted seven beds besides his own. On a table running
down the ward stood a vase of sweet-peas and a bowl of roses. He
thought there was never in the world so clean and cool a figure as the
grey-clad nurse in her spotless white apron, cuffs and cap.

When she passed near him again, he summoned her. She came to his
bedside.

"What do you call this particular region of fairyland?"

She stared at him for a moment, adjusting things in her mind; fo