‘Are you giving me the sack, sir?’

‘If only they can patch me up…’

‘But they will, sir. Dr Forster said the leg ought to respond very quickly to hydrotherapy,’ said Dikon with a prime imitation of the doctor’s manner. ‘They simply hated the sight of me in the Australian recruiting offices. And I fancy I should have little more than refuse value at home. I’m as blind as a bat, you know. Of course, there’s office work.’

‘You must do what you think best,’ said Gaunt gloomily. ‘Leave me to stagnate. I’m no good to my country. Ha!’

‘If you can call raising twelve thousand for colonial patriotic funds no good…’

‘I’m a useless hulk,’ said Gaunt, and even Dikon was reminded of the penultimate scene in Jane Eyre.

‘What are you grinning at, blast you?’ Gaunt demanded.

‘You don’t look precisely like a useless hulk. I’ll stay a little longer if you’ll have me.’

‘Well, let’s hear about this new place. You’re looking wonderfully self-conscious. What hideous surprise have you got up your sleeve?’

Dikon put his attache case on the writing-table and opened it.

‘There’s a princely fan mail today,’ he said, and laid a stack of typed sheets and photographs on one side.

‘Good! I adore being adored. How many have written a little something themselves and wonder if I can advise them how to have their plays produced?’

‘Four. One lady has sent a copy of her piece. She has dedicated it to you. It’s a fantasy.’

‘God!’

‘Here is Dr Forster’s letter, and one enclosed from a Dr James Ackrington who appears to be a celebrity from Harley Street. Perhaps you’d like to read them.’

‘I should hate to read them.’

‘I think you’d better, sir.’

Gaunt grimaced, took the letters and lowered himself into a chair by the writing-desk. Dikon watched him rather nervously.