"Poor Quentin! Is the leg very bad ?" He laughed.

"O, no.

It's mending famously.

I'll be able to get about without a stick in another month, and then you've got to teach me all the new dances." The jigging music of a two-step floated down the corridor.

It made the young man's brow contract, for it brought to him a vision of dead faces in the gloom of a November dusk.