A long silence followed his words. The wounded soldier lay with closed eyes and drawn brows. He seemed to be unconscious of everything save physical pain.
Suddenly he seemed to recover himself, and looked up.
"You," he said slowly, "you are Montagu Durant, the fellow she was engaged to before she married Rotherby."
The doctor bent his head.
"Yes," he said. "I am Montagu Durant."
"Rotherby's friend," Ford went on. "The chap who stuck to him through thick and thin—to be betrayed in the end. I know all about you, you see, though you haven't placed me yet."
"No, I can't place you," Durant said. "I don't think we ever knew each other very well. You will have to tell me who you are."
"Later—later," said Ford. "No, you never knew me very well. It was always you and Rotherby, you and Rotherby. You never looked at any one else, till that row at the 'Varsity when he got kicked out. Yes," with a sudden, sharp sigh, "I was a 'Varsity man too. I admired Leonard Rotherby in those days. Poor old Leo! He knew how to hit a boundary as well as any fellow! You never forgave him, I suppose, for marrying your girl?"
There was a pause, and the fevered eyes sought Durant's face. The answer came at length very slowly.
"I could have forgiven him," Durant said, "if he had stuck to her and made her happy."