"Oh—looked! It's melted ice—simply."
"So I realized, afterwards."
"You seem to do most things afterwards. What caused it in the first place, cold?"
"The sciatica? No—an injury."
There was a slight pause.
"Was it—in the war?" The new note in her voice did not escape Spence. He lied promptly—too promptly. Desire Farr was an observant young person, quite capable of drawing conclusions.
"I'm not going to be sympathetic," she said. "That," with sudden illumination, "is probably what you ran away from. But you'd better be truthfull Was it a bullet?"
"Shrapnel."
"And the treatment?"
"Rest, and the tablets in my bag."