“But you’ve only got us as far as the club, old boy,” Dalton objected mildly. His arms were aching with the sagging weight of the wounded man, but his voice was low and soothing. The crash had opened the wound again, the slow red stain was spreading, and there was nothing to do but wait, and keep him talking, keep him homesick and drowsy and patient, as long as possible. “The club’s not home, after all—”

“London’s home,” Hilary broke in fretfully. “England’s home. Anywhere in England will do,” he insisted, battling the strange new, unreasonable, insurgent knowledge that for him the journey was not ended, could never end again until that spare gray house in the Mendips was reached. “Don’t split hairs, Bill—”

“But how about that house—the one you’ve got a picture of—”

“I was only trying out a new camera. The house stood there, so I snapped it. I’m not sentimental about it,” he assured himself for the hundredth time. “It’s an ugly house, Bill—the garden is good, though—”

“I can see that, in the picture. How do we get to the Mendips from the club, old boy?” persisted Dalton kindly.