‘I wish I had had you in my battalion a year ago,’ I said.

’No, you don’t.  I’d only have been a nuisance.  I’ve been a Fabian since Oxford, but you’re a better socialist than me.  I’m a rancid individualist.’

‘But you must be feeling better about the war?’ I asked.

’Not a bit of it.  I’m still lusting for the heads of the politicians that made it and continue it.  But I want to help my country.  Honestly, Hannay, I love the old place.  More, I think, than I love myself, and that’s saying a devilish lot.  Short of fighting—­which would be the sin against the Holy Spirit for me—­I’ll do my damnedest.  But you’ll remember I’m not used to team work.  If I’m a jealous player, beat me over the head.’

His voice was almost wistful, and I liked him enormously.

‘Blenkiron will see to that,’ I said.  ’We’re going to break you to harness, Wake, and then you’ll be a happy man.  You keep your mind on the game and forget about yourself.  That’s the cure for jibbers.’

As I journeyed to St Anton I thought a lot about that talk.  He was quite right about Mary, who would never have married him.  A man with such an angular soul couldn’t fit into another’s.  And then I thought that the chief thing about Mary was just her serene certainty.  Her eyes had that settled happy look that I remembered to have seen only in one other human face, and that was Peter’s . . .  But I wondered if Peter’s eyes were still the same.

I found the cottage, a little wooden thing which had been left perched on its knoll when the big hotels grew around it.  It had a fence in front, but behind it was open to the hillside.  At the gate stood a bent old woman with a face like a pippin.  My make-up must have been good, for she accepted me before I introduced myself.

‘God be thanked you are come,’ she cried.  ’The poor lieutenant needed a man to keep him company.  He sleeps now, as he does always in the afternoon, for his leg wearies him in the night . . .  But he is brave, like a soldier . . .  Come, I will show you the house, for you two will be alone now.’

Stepping softly she led me indoors, pointing with a warning finger to the little bedroom where Peter slept.  I found a kitchen with a big stove and a rough floor of planking, on which lay some badly cured skins.  Off it was a sort of pantry with a bed for me.  She showed me the pots and pans for cooking and the stores she had laid in, and where to find water and fuel.  ‘I will do the marketing daily,’ she said, ’and if you need me, my dwelling is half a mile up the road beyond the new church.  God be with you, young man, and be kind to that wounded one.’