The Moon out of Reach | Page 9

heard you lately. I've only just come back from America."
"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."

"I'm so sorry you've a souvenir of any kind," said Nan quickly, with the
spontaneousness which was part of her charm.
"Now that's very nice of you," answered the man. "There's no reason
why you should burden yourself with the woes of a perfect stranger."
"I don't call you a perfect stranger," replied Nan serenely. "I call you a
Good Samaritan."
"I'm generally known as Peter Mallory," he interjected modestly.
"And you know my name. I think that constitutes an introduction."
"Thank you," he said simply.
Nan laughed.
"The thanks are all on my side," she answered. "Here we are at
Paddington, and it's entirely due to you that I shall catch my train."
The taxi pulled up and stood panting.
"Shares, please!" said Nan, when he had paid the driver.
For an instant a look of swift negation flashed across Mallory's face,
then he replied composedly:
"Your share is two shillings."
Nan tendered a two-shilling piece, blessing him in her heart for
refraining from putting her under a financial obligation to a stranger.
He accepted the money quite simply, and turning away to speak to a
porter, he tucked the two-shilling piece into his waistcoat pocket, while
an odd, contemplative little smile curved his lips.
There was some slight confusion in the mind of the porter, who
exhibited a zealous disposition to regard the arrivals as one party and to
secure them seats in the same compartment.

Mallory, unheard by Nan, enlightened him quietly.
"I see, sir. You want a smoker?"
Mallory nodded and tipped him recklessly.
"That's it. You find the lady a comfortable corner seat. I'll look after
myself."
He turned back to Nan.
"I've told the porter to find you a good seat. I think you ought to be all
right as the trains aren't crowded. Good-bye."
Nan held out her hand impulsively.
"Good-bye," she said. "And, once more, thank you ever so much."
His hand closed firmly round hers.
"There's no need. I'm only too glad to have been of any service."
He raised his hat and moved away and Nan could see the slight limp of
which he had spoken--his "souvenir of hell."
The porter fulfilled his obligations and bestowed her in an empty
first-class carriage, even exerting himself to fetch a newspaper boy
from whom she purchased a small sheaf of magazines. The train started
and very soon the restaurant attendant came along. Since she detested
the steamy odour of cooking which usually pervades the dining-car of a
train, she gave instructions that her lunch should be served to her in her
own compartment. This done, she settled down to the quiet monotony
of the journey, ate her lunch in due course, and finally drowsed over a
magazine until she woke with a start to find the train at a standstill.
Thinking she had arrived at St. David's Station, where she must change
on to another line, she sprang up briskly. To her amazement she found
they were not at a station at all. Green fields sloped away from the
railway track and there was neither house nor cottage in sight. The
voices of the guard and ticket-collector in agitated conference sounded

just below and Nan thrust her head out of the window.
"Why