Doggie lay in the long, pleasant ward of the great London hospital, the upper left side of his body a mass of bandaged pain. Neck and shoulder, front and back and arm, had been shattered and torn by high explosive shell. The top of his lung had been grazed. Only the remorseless pressure at the base hospital had justified the sending of him, after a week, to England. Youth and the splendid constitution which Dr. Murdoch had proclaimed in the far-off days of the war’s beginning, and the toughening training of the war itself, carried him through. No more fighting for Doggie this side of the grave. But the grave was as far distant as it is from any young man in his twenties who avoids abnormal peril.
Till to-day he had not been allowed to see visitors, or to receive letters. They told him that the Dean of Durdlebury had called; had brought flowers and fruit and had left a card “From your Aunt, Peggy and myself.” But to-day he felt wonderfully strong, in spite of the unrelenting pain, and the nurse had said: “I shouldn’t wonder if you had some visitors this afternoon.” Peggy, of course. He followed the hands of his wrist-watch until they marked the visiting hour. And sure enough, a minute afterwards, amid the stream of men and women—chiefly women—of all grades and kinds, he caught sight of Peggy’s face smiling beneath her widow’s hat. She had a great bunch of violets in her bodice.
“My dear old Doggie!” She bent down and kissed him. “Those rotten people wouldn’t let me come before.”
“I know,” said Doggie. He pointed to his shoulder. “I’m afraid I’m in a hell of a mess. It’s lovely to see you.”
She unpinned the violets and thrust them towards his face.
“From home. I’ve brought ’em for you.”
“My God!” said Doggie, burying his nose in the huge bunch. “I never knew violets could smell like this.” He laid them down with a sigh. “How’s everybody?”
“Quite fit.”
There was a span of silence. Then he stretched out his hand and she gave him hers and he gripped it tight.
“Poor old Peggy dear!”