well acquainted with Chip's home. The sitting room possessed two solidly comfortable chairs and a sofa, all covered in brown linen. There was a gate-legged table, two etchings by Rops, and a vast number of books on religious subjects. Except for the books and the etchings it was as impersonal a room as a man could have. It touched her, it was so—she searched for a word—so starved.
"Man cannot live by books alone, my poor Chip," she thought. She seemed to see again the kindly, tired lines about his mouth and eyes. She imagined a lonely life for him, with Major Stroud as the only close human tie. They had been through two campaigns together, the latter had told her. Fancy calling the Great War a campaign! She smiled at the thought. A hard-bitten man, the Major. She supposed the two were about of an age—say, forty-three. Bachelors? Oh, undoubtedly.
Then the doctor arrived—a cheerful, bustling man with a short gray beard. He seemed to have known the two of them for years.
"I helped to bring this young man into the world," he told Judy, clapping an affectionate hand on the Major's solid shoulder. That gentleman, who didn't look as though he could pos-
