society.  ‘What humbugs we are!’ he thought:  ’To read the newspapers and the speeches you’d believe everybody thought of nothing but how to get killed for the sake of the future.  Drunk on verbiage!  What heads and mouths we shall all have when we wake up some fine morning with Peace shining in at the window!  Ah!  If only we could; and enjoy ourselves again!’ And he gazed at the moon.  She was dipping already, reeling away into the dawn.  Water carts and street sweepers had come out into the glimmer; sparrows twittered in the eaves.  The city was raising a strange unknown face to the grey light, shuttered and deserted as Babylon.  Jimmy Fort tapped out his pipe, sighed, and got into bed.

2

Coming off duty at that very moment, Leila Lynch decided to have her hour’s walk before she went home.  She was in charge of two wards, and as a rule took the day watches; but some slight upset had given her this extra spell.  She was, therefore, at her worst, or perhaps at her best, after eighteen hours in hospital.  Her cheeks were pale, and about her eyes were little lines, normally in hiding.  There was in this face a puzzling blend of the soft and hard, for the eyes, the rather full lips, and pale cheeks, were naturally soft; but they were hardened by the self-containment which grows on women who have to face life for themselves, and, conscious of beauty, intend to keep it, in spite of age.  Her figure was contradictory, also; its soft modelling a little too rigidified by stays.  In this desert of the dawn she let her long blue overcoat flap loose, and swung her hat on a finger, so that her light-brown, touched-up hair took the morning breeze with fluffy freedom.  Though she could not see herself, she appreciated her appearance, swaying along like that, past lonely trees and houses.  A pity there was no one to see her in that round of Regent’s Park, which took her the best part of an hour, walking in meditation, enjoying the colour coming back into the world, as if especially for her.

There was character in Leila Lynch, and she had lived an interesting life from a certain point of view.  In her girlhood she had fluttered the hearts of many besides Cousin Edward Pierson, and at eighteen had made a passionate love match with a good-looking young Indian civilian, named Fane.  They had loved each other to a standstill in twelve months.  Then had begun five years of petulance, boredom, and growing cynicism, with increasing spells of Simla, and voyages home for her health which was really harmed by the heat.  All had culminated, of course, in another passion for a rifleman called Lynch.  Divorce had followed, remarriage, and then the Boer War, in which he had been badly wounded.  She had gone out and nursed him back to half his robust health, and, at twenty-eight, taken up life with him on an up-country farm in Cape Colony.  This middle period had lasted ten years, between the lonely farm and an old Dutch house at High Constantia.  Lynch