rd and put his hand in his pocket.

"Imagination, you say. Do you call that imagination?" He produced the
lock of hair from a matchbox. "Further, do you call that imagination?
I found it under the pillow this morning." On the table beside the
match-box he placed a small pocket handkerchief, and from it there came
the faint, elusive scent of jasmine. "And last of all, do you call
that imagination? I found it in one of the books yonder." He placed
an old envelope in front of him, and the others crowded round. It was
addressed to Ober-Lieutenant Fritz Rutter.

VI

MORPHIA

The man stirred uneasily, and a faint moan came from his lips. A
numbness seemed to envelop his body from the waist downwards, and in
the intervals of a stabbing pain in his head, he seemed to hear people
whispering near by. A figure passed close to him, the figure of a girl
with fair hair, in a grey dress--the figure of a girl like Molly. A
red-hot iron stabbed his brain; his teeth clenched on his lips; he
fought with all his will, but once again he moaned; he couldn't help
it--it was involuntary. The girl stopped and came towards him; she was
speaking to him, for he heard her voice. But what was she saying? Why
did she speak so indistinctly? Why--ah, but her hand on his forehead
was cool. It seemed to quiet those raging devils in his head; it
helped him, as Molly always helped him. It seemed to--why, surely, it
must be Molly herself, with her dear, soft touch, and her lips ready to
kiss, and the sweet smell of her hair mounting to his brain like wine.
Something pricked his arm: something that felt like the needle of a
syringe; something that . . . But anyway, what the deuce was she
doing? Then suddenly he recalled that pin at the back of her dress,
where he'd pricked his wrist so badly the first time he'd kissed her.

He laughed gently at the remembrance; and the hand on his forehead
trembled. For laughter to be a pleasant thing to hear it is essential
that the person who laughs should be in full possession of--well, it is
better, at any rate, that his head should not have been hit by a bomb,
especially if it was his lower jaw that bore the brunt.

"What are you trembling for, Molly?" The voice was tender. "The pain
has quite gone--I must have had a touch of the sun."

But for a question to be answered it must be audible; and the girl
whose hand was on his forehead heard no words. Merely was there a
great and wonder