“No, a friend,” she corrected.  “So you’ll just have to be a male nurse, I guess.  A German-American would be best, I think, as you’ll have to read the German papers to Gerry—­he doesn’t know a word of German.  Then, you must have a name of some kind....”

“Frederick Meyer,” I suggested promptly, “from Pittsburg.  It’ll have to be Pittsburg:  Francis went there for a bit, you know:  he wrote me a lot about the place and I’ve seen pictures of it, too.  It’s the only American city I know anything about.”

“Let it be Meyer from Pittsburg, then,” smiled Monica, “but you’ve got a terrible English accent, Des.  I guess we’ll have to tell Gerry you were years nursing in London before the war.”

She hesitated a moment, then added: 

“Des, I’m afraid you’ll find Gerry very trying.  He’s awfully irritable and ... and very spiteful.  So you must be careful not to give yourself away.”

I had only met the brother once and my recollection of him was of a good looking, rather spoilt young man.  He had been brought up entirely in the States by the Long Island uncle whose great fortune he had inherited.

“You’ll be quite safe up here for the present,” Monica went on.  “You’ll sleep in the little room off Gerry’s and I’ll have your meals served there too.  After I have found out from the General how things stand, we’ll decide what’s to be done next.”

“I’ll be very wary with Master Gerry,” I said.  “But, Monica, though he has only seen me once, he knows Francis pretty well and we are rather alike.  Do you think he’ll recognize me?”

“Why, Desmond, it’s years since he saw you.  And you’re not much like Francis with your moustache off.  If you’re careful, it’ll be all right!  It isn’t for long, either.  Now we’ll go in.  Come along.”

As we entered, a petulant voice cried: 

“Is that you, Monica?  Say, am I to be left alone all the morning?”

“Gerry dear,” answered Monica very sweetly, “I’ve been engaging someone to look after you a bit.  Come here, Meyer!  This is Frederick Meyer, Gerry!”

I should never have recognized the handsome, rather indolent youth I had met in London in the pale man with features drawn with pain who gazed frowningly at me from the bed.

“Who is he?  Where did you get him from?  Does he know German?”

He shot a string of questions at Monica, who answered them in her sweet, patient way.

He was apparently satisfied, for, when Monica presently got up to leave us, he threw me an armful of German papers and bade me read to him.

I had not sat with him for ten minutes before I realized what an impossible creature the man was.  Nothing I could do was right.  Now he didn’t want to hear the war news, then it was the report of the Reichstag debate that bored him, now I didn’t read loud enough, then my voice jarred on him.  Finally, he snatched the paper out of my hand.