Kitty nodded soberly.

“Quite right, Sandy.  And if there’s anything we can any of us do to help, ’phone down at once.”

A minute later Sandy was speeding back to the Hall as fast as the “stink-pot” could take him.

“It’s pretty ghastly,” said Kitty, as she and Nan turned away together.  “Poor old Roger!”

“Yes,” replied Nan mechanically.  “Poor Roger.”

A sudden thought had sprung into her mind, overwhelming her with its significance.  The letter she had written to Roger—­she couldn’t send it now!  Common humanity forbade that it should go.  It would have to wait—­wait till Roger had recovered.  The disappointment, cutting across a deep and real sympathy with the injured man, was sharp and bitter.

Very slowly she made her way upstairs.  The letter, which she still clasped rigidly, seemed to burn her palm like red-hot iron.  She felt as though she could not unclench the hand which held it.  But this phase only lasted for a few minutes.  When she reached her room she opened her hand stiffly and the crumpled envelope fell on to the bed.

She stared at it blankly.  That letter—­which had meant so much to her—­could not be sent!  She might have to wait weeks—­months even, before it could go.  And meanwhile, she would be compelled to pretend—­pretend to Roger, because he was so ill that the truth must be hidden from him till he recovered.  Then, swift as the thrust of a knife, another thought followed. . . .  Suppose—­suppose Roger never recovered? . . .  What was it Sandy had said?  An injury to the spine.  Did people recover from spinal injury?  Or did they linger on, wielding those terrible rights which weakness for ever holds over health and strength?

Nan flung herself on the bed and lay there, face downwards, trying to realise the awful possibilities which the accident to Roger might entail for her.  Because if it left him crippled—­a hopeless invalid—­the letter she had written could never be sent at all.  She could not desert him, break off her engagement, if she herself represented all that was left to him in life.

It seemed hours afterwards, though in reality barely half an hour had elapsed, when she heard the sound of footsteps racing up the staircase, and a minute later, without even a preliminary knock, Kitty burst into the room.  Her face was alight with joyful excitement.  In her hand she held an open telegram.

“Listen, Nan!  Oh”—­seeing the other’s startled, apprehensive face—­“it’s good news this time!”

Good news!  Nan stared at her with an expression of impassive incredulity.  There was no good news that could come to her.

“It seems horrible to feel glad over anyone’s death, but I simply can’t help it,” went on Kitty.  “Peter has just telegraphed me that Celia died yesterday. . . .  Oh, Nan, dearest!  I’m so glad for you—­so glad for you and Peter!”