Half an hour later he stood, ankle-deep in water, groping for his shells and oblivious of the review, the firing that echoed far away, the flight of time—­everything.  Kitty, with one fore-leg through the bridle, was cropping on the brink.  Minutes passed, and the doctor raised his head, for the blood was running into it.  At that moment his eye was caught by a scarlet object under a gorse-bush on the opposite bank.  He gave a second look, then waded across towards it.

It was a baby:  a baby not a week old, wrapped only in a red handkerchief.

The doctor bent over it.  The infant opened its eyes and began to wail.  At this instant an orderly appeared on the ridge above, scanning the country.  He caught sight of the doctor and descended to the opposite shore of the pool, where he saluted and yelled his message.  It appeared that some awkward militiaman had blown his thumb off in the blank cartridge practice and surgical help was wanted at once.

Doctor Jago dropped the corner of the handkerchief, returned across the pool, was helped on to Kitty’s back and cantered away, the orderly after him.

In an hour’s time, having put on a tourniquet and bandaged the hand, he was back again by the pool.  The baby was still there.  He lifted it and found a scrap of paper underneath. . . .

The doctor returned by devious ways to his home, a full hour before he was expected.  He rode in at the back gate, where to his secret satisfaction he found no stable-boy.  So he stabled Kitty himself, and crept into his own house like a thief.  Nor was it like his habits to pay, as he did, a visit to the little cupboard (where the brandy-bottle was kept) underneath the stairs, before entering the drawing-room, with his face full of guilt and diplomacy.

“Gracious, John!” cried out Mrs. Jago, dropping her knitting.  “Is the review over already?”

“No, I don’t think it is—­at least, I don’t know,” stammered the doctor.

“John, you have had another attack of that vertigo.”

“Upon my honour I have not, Maria.”  The doctor was vehement; for the vertigo necessitated brandy, and a visit to the little cupboard below the stairs meant hideous detection.

So he sat up and tried to describe the review to his wife, and made such an abject mess of it, that after twenty minutes she made up her mind that he must have a headache, and, leaving the room quietly, went to the little cupboard below the stairs.  She found the door ajar. . . .

When, after a long absence, she reappeared in the drawing-room, she had forgotten to bring the brandy, and wore a look as guilty as her husband’s.  So they sat together and talked in the twilight on trivial matters; and each had a heart insufferably burdened, and each was waiting desperately for an opportunity to lighten it.

“John,” said Mrs. Jago at last, “we are getting poor company for each other.