He shuddered a little as he conceived himself crawling through heather to reach a man in the front line who had been hit, while the enemies' guns on the crest opposite were firing as he had seen them fire in play.

He tried to imagine what it would be like to be hit.
Then he got up and stretched himself.

He looked round curiously at the bookcase, the Oxford group or two, the hockey cap that hung on the edge of one.

He turned to the mantelpiece and glanced over the photos.
Probably Bob Scarlett would be out at once; he was in some Irish regiment or other.

Old Howson was in India; he wouldn't hear or see much.
Jimmy--what would Jimmy do, now?
He picked up the photograph and looked at it--the clean-shaven, thoughtful, good-looking face of the best fellow in the world, who had got his fellowship almost at once after his brilliant degree, and was just now, he reflected, on holiday in the South of France.