“Oh.”  The doctor was puzzled still.  “But that’s Urquhart’s business, not yours.  It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

“Please,” said Peter from the bed.  “Do you mind?”

The doctor looked and saw feverish blue lamps alight in a pale face, and soothingly said he did not mind.  “Your shoulder, no one else’s, isn’t it?” he admitted.  “Now you’d better go to sleep; you’ll be all right directly, if you’re careful not to move it or lie on it or anything.”

Peter said he would be careful.  He didn’t at all want to move it or lie on it or anything.  He lay and had waking visions of the popping rabbits.  But they might pop as they liked; Peter hid a better thing in his inmost soul.  Urquhart had said, “Sorry to hurt you, Margerison.  You were jolly sporting, though.”  In the night it seemed incredible that Urquhart had stooped from Valhalla thus far; that Urquhart had pulled in his arm with his own hands and called him sporting to his face.  The words, and the echo of the soft, pleasant, casual voice, with its unemphasised intonations, spread lifting wings for him, and bore him above the aching pain that stayed with him through the night.

Next morning, when Peter was wishing that the crumbs of breakfast that got between one’s back and one’s pyjamas were less sharp-cornered, and wondering why a dislocated shoulder should give one an aching bar of pain across the forehead, and feeling very sad because a letter from home had just informed him that his favourite guinea-pig had been trodden on by the gardener, Urquhart came to see him.

Urquhart said, “Hullo, Margerison.  How are you this morning?” and Peter said he was very nearly all right now, thanks very much.  He added, “Thanks awfully, Urquhart, for putting it in, and seeing after me and everything.”

“Oh, that’s all right.”  Urquhart’s smile had the same pleasant quality as his voice.  He had never smiled at Peter before.  Peter lay and looked at him, the blue lamps very bright in his pale face, and thought what a jolly voice and face Urquhart had.  Urquhart stood by the bed, his hands in his pockets, and looked rather pleasantly down at the thin, childish figure in pink striped pyjamas.  Peter was fourteen, and looked less, being delicate to frailness.  Urquhart had been rather shocked by his extreme lightness.  He had also been pleased by his pluck; hence the pleasant expression of his eyes.  He was a little touched, too, by the unmistakable admiration in the over-bright blue regard.  Urquhart was not unused to admiration; but here was something very whole-hearted and rather pleasing.  Margerison seemed rather a nice little kid.

Then, quite suddenly, and still in his pleasant, soft, casual tones, Urquhart dragged Peter’s immense secret into the light of day.

“How are your people?” he said.

Peter stammered that they were quite well.

“Of course,” Urquhart went on, “I don’t remember your mother; I was only a baby when my father died.  But I’ve always heard a lot about her.  Is she...”