“You would never guess,” wrote Winona, “who was brought to this base hospital last week.  It was the Mr. Brennon I wrote you of, Mr. Edward Brennon, the friend of Wilbur’s who went with him from Newbern.  He is blind from gas, poor thing!  Our head surgeon knew him.  It seems he is one of the prettiest lightweights the head surgeon ever saw in action, a two-handed fighter with a good right and a good left.  These are terms used in the sport of boxing.

“Of course he knows he is blind, but at first he thought he was only in the dark.  Wilbur had told him of me.  The most curious misunderstanding—­he is positive he once saw me at home.  Says I am the prettiest thing he ever looked at, and don’t I remember coming into the post office one day in a white dress and white shoes and a blue parasol and getting some mail and going out to a motor where some people waited for me?  The foolish thing insists I have blue eyes and light brown hair and I was smiling when I looked at him in passing; not smiling at him, of course, but from something the people in the car had said; and I had one glove off and carried the other with the blue sunshade.  And I think he means a girl from Rochester that visited the Hendricks, those mill people, summer before last.  She was pretty enough, in a girlish way, but not at all my type.  But I can’t convince Edward it was not I he saw.  I have given up trying.  What harm in letting him think so?  He says, anyway, he would know I am beautiful, because he can feel it even if I come into the room.  Did you ever hear such talk?  But I am looking a lot better, in spite of all I have been through.

“I had a week in Paris last month, and bought some clothes, a real Paris dress and things.”  You would not know me in the new outfit.  The skirt is of rather a daring shortness, but such is the mode now, and I am told it becomes me.  Poor Edward, he is so patient, except for spells when he seems to go mad with realizing his plight.  He is still a man.  His expression is forceful.  He doesn’t smoke, and warns me against it, though the few cigarettes I allow myself are a precious relief.  But I have promised him to give up the habit when the war is over.  He is a strong man, but helpless.  He still believes I am the pretty thing he saw in the post office.  The skirt is pleated, light summer stuff, and falls in a straight line.  Of course I have the shoes and stockings that go with it.”

“There!” exploded the judge.  “Taking up with prize fighters—­traipsing round in a regular French dress, looking like something she’s not supposed to be!”

“Lysander!” rebuked his wife hotly.

“He tells me lots about Wilbur,” continued the letter.  “He hints that the boy is in love, but will say nothing definite.  Men are so close-mouthed.  I hope our boy doesn’t marry some little French anybody.  His face is not exactly pleasant to look upon for the time being, but he has a very winning personality.”