A white frost was on the grass, and there was a clear sky through which the sunrise was fast mounting.

Along an eastern wood ran a fiery rose of dawn, the fine leaf-work of the beeches showing sharply upon it.

There was a thrush singing, and a robin came close to the window, hopped on the ledge, and looked in.
'Ripping!' said Desmond softly.

'There were jolly mornings in France too.' Then his clear brow contracted.

Aubrey stooped to him.
'Any news ?' said the blanched lips.
'None yet, old man.