I said:
‘Is Guy any better?’
She said:
‘Not yet; he may get better.’
Guy did get better, very slowly indeed. He would live, they said, he would walk again, but he would be lame always. I could not imagine Guy lame, walking about with a stick.
Cousin Delia said only:
‘I am so glad that he will live.’
There was, it seemed, something unconquerable in Guy.
I saw him in September. He looked ill, and almost old. Guy on his back, not moving, seemed all wrong; and his hair was turning grey.
He smiled at me.