"I am sorry for you," he said with feeling in his tone, "I was a crock for eighteen months in hospital after 1915, so I know what bed is. I never left it for twelve solid months."
"That is my time—a year—and then I hope I shall be cured."
His whole face softened.
"Ah," he said, "when you've suffered yourself, you can feel for others."
"Yes—and I dare say I was in need of a more sympathetic spirit," said Rowena thoughtfully. "I have always laughed too much. I laugh at myself now. You want to know about our shooting. Ted has let it, I am afraid."
They began to talk over estate matters, and then about sport in general. He seemed in no hurry to go; and presently began to revert to his own state of health.
"I am only here to patch myself up," he said. "But they've chucked me out of the army—let me retire as Major-General. I suppose I ought to feel my life is over; but my brain is sound, and it makes me rage at times. What shall I do with myself here? Only vegetate."
"Oh, no; if you are a reader, you won't do that. It's wonderful how much fuller we can store our brains than we do! I cannot fill my empty cells fast enough! Have you any hobbies?"
He shook his head.
"I'm a reader of sorts. I couldn't have lived through my eighteen months without books."