like sap in a fallen tree: new energy throbbed in his veins, his
heart beat strong and even, it was hard to believe that he could
not get off his bed if he liked and go down to the playing fields
or throw his leg over a horse. This mood fastened on him without
warning in a Surbiton hospital after a calm night without a
sleeping draught, when through his open window he could see green
branches waving in sunlight, and hear the cries of men playing
cricket and the smack of the driven ball: and it was torture.
Tears forced their way suddenly into Bernard's eyes. His nurse,
who had watched not a few reluctant recoveries, went out of the
room. Then his great chest heaved, and he sobbed aloud, lying
on his back with face unhidden, his wide black eyes blinking at
the sweet pale June sky. No chance of death for him: he was good
for ten, twenty, fifty years more: he could not bear it, but it
had to be borne. He tried to pull himself up: if he could only
have reached the window! But the arms that felt so strong were
as weak as an infant's, while the dead weight of his helpless
legs dragged on him like lead. The only result of his struggle
was a dreadful access of pain. Reaction followed, for he had
learnt in his A B C days not to whimper when he was hurt, and by
the time the nurse returned Clowes had scourged himself back to
his usual savage tranquillity. "Can I have that window shut,
please?" he asked, cynically frank. "I used to play cricket
myself."

Laura Clowes in this period went through an experience almost
equally formative. Two years older than Bernard, she was also
more mature for her years and had developed more evenly, and from
the outset her engagement and marriage had meant more to her then
to Bernard, because her girlhood had been unhappy and they provided