"Oh, were you in the war?" she asked quickly.

"Why, naturally." He smiled a little. "I was perfectly sound in wind
and limb--then."

Nan flushed suddenly. She knew of one man who had taken no fighting
part. Maryon Rooke's health was apparently more delicate than anyone had
imagined, and his artistes hands were, so he explained, an asset to the
country, not to be risked like hands made of commoner clay. This holding
back on his part had been the thing that had tortured Nan more than
anything else during the long years of the war, in spite of the reasons
he had offered in explanation, not least of which was the
indispensability of his services at Whitehall--in which he genuinely
believed.

"It's simply a choice between using brains or brawn as cannon-fodder," he
used to say. "I'm serving with my brain instead of with my body."

And Nan, attracted by Rooke's odd fascination, had womanlike, tried to
believe this and to thrust aside any thoughts that were disloyal to her
faith in him. But, glancing now at the clever, clean-cut face of the man
beside her, with its whimsical, sensitive mouth and steady eyes, she
realised that he, at least, had kept nothing back--had offered brain and
body equally to his country.

"And now? You look quite sound in wind and limb still," she commented.

"Oh, I've been one of the lucky ones. I've only got a game leg as my
souvenir of hell. I just limp a bit, that's all."