f
convalescence out in the gardens of your villa and down by the sea were
the most wonderful days I ever spent."

"I love to hear you say so," she confessed.

"Out there," he continued, "the whole show was hideous from beginning to
end, a ghastly, terrible drama, played out amongst all the accompaniments
which make hell out of earth. And yet the thing gripped. The tragedy of
Ypres came and I escaped from the hospital."

"You were not fit to go. They all said that."

"I couldn't help it," he answered. "The guns were there, calling, and
one forgot. I've been back to England three times since then, and each
time one thought was foremost in my mind--'shall I meet Sister
Josephine?'"

"But you never even made enquiries," she reminded him. "At my hospital I
made it a strict rule that our names in civil life were never mentioned
or divulged, but afterwards you could have found out."

He touched her left hand very lightly, lingered for a moment on her
fourth finger.

"It was the ring," he said. "I knew that you were married, and
somehow, knowing that, I desired to know no more. I suppose that
sounds rather like a cry from Noah's Ark, but I couldn't help it. I
just felt like that."

"And now you probably know a good deal about me," she remarked, with a
rather sad smile. "I have been married nine years. I gather that you know
my husband by name and repute."

"Your husband is associated with a man whom I have always considered my
enemy," he said.

"My husband's friends are not my friends," she rejoined, a little
bitterly, "nor does he take me into his confidence as regards his
business exploits."

"Then what does it matter?" he asked. "I should never have sought you
out, for the reason I have given you, but since we have met you will not
refuse me your friendship? You will let me come and see you?"

She laughed softly.

"I shall be very unhappy if you do not. Come to-morrow afternoon to tea
at five o'clock. There will be no one else there, and we can talk of
those times on the beach at Etaples. You were rather a pessimist in
those days."

"It seems ages ago," he replied. "To-day, at any rate, I feel
differently. I knew when I glanced at Lady Amesbury's card this morning
that something was going to happen. I went to that stupid garden party
all agog for adventure."

"Am I the adventure?" she asked lightly.

He made no immediate answer, turning his head, however, and studying her
with a queer, impersonal delib