Ridgeley, and then there had been a few years in Egypt where he had
studied some strange germ, of which she could never remember the name.
He had plenty of money, hence he was not tied to a practice. But when
the war began, he had offered his services, and had made a great record.
"He is one of the big men of the future," Ridgeley Dunbar had said.

But when Christopher came back with an infected arm, which might give
him trouble, it was not the time to talk of futures. He was invited to
spend July at the Dunbars' country home in Connecticut, and Ridgeley
brought him out at the week-end.

The Connecticut estate consisted of a rambling stone house, an
old-fashioned garden, and beyond the garden a grove of white birches.

"What a heavenly place," Christopher said, toward the end of dinner;
"how did you happen to find it?"

"Oh, Anne did it. She motored for weeks, and she bought it because of
the birches."

Anne's eyes were shining. "I'll show them to you after dinner."

She had decided at once that she liked Christopher. He still wore his
uniform, and had the look of a soldier. But it wasn't that--it was the
things he had been saying ever since the soup was served. No one had
talked of the war as he talked of it. There had been other doctors whose
minds had been on arms and legs--amputated; on wounds and shell
shock--And there had been a few who had sentimentalized. But Christopher
had seemed neither to resent the frightfulness nor to care about the
moral or spiritual consequences. He had found in it all a certain beauty