"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.