Hello, I think that's time. My name is Sveta Smirnova and you see on the slides another name Alexander Rubin is Principal architect and prekona and actually he was a person who made most of work on the slides here on Tests he majored this time at his results. Unfortunately, he could not come So this is why only me is here Okay, so what we'll be talking about today I will be talking about Apache spark why and how to use it It's I will focus on words how to use it together with my squeal and for examples We use wiki states example wiki states analysis. This is a free Database available for download. It's about 10 terabyte So what's a spark if compared to my school? You see this picture. It's like for my school timers They may probably a full picture. You see let's how my school work so first your application sends a request and then my school has to Pursate has to validate it has to optimize it sends it to storage engine If it needs to save results, it has to write it up to file system and return results and Process it does everything so this is Big walk spark in contrast does only for computing it only only computing hits sense to third party like Amazon is three local five systems and the my scale And actually many many it supports many many backends. It's just only computers, but does it in parallel and this is Why you need it? So why you need it? You need it. It's most use case is processing big like Big data in a single query which for my school. This is Not the best thing to do and I will describe here later. Why? which is about spark it's there are there are like old fire like faq like you have You have to Have enough memory for full data set. This is not true Spark processes data in memory, but it likes it's mostly like like my school with caches It also has direct access to data sources including my school and can be any Constable data in Distributed file system. It's had up HDFS and a local file system Places it has native python and our integration, but this is massively parallel. This is more important thing It's powered spark. It's can compute compute in Multiple threads and also it can compute the distribute on multiple nodes So you can scale on a single machine on multiple cores and you can also scale on multiple machines. So this is Increasing parallel so let's compare Spark with my school So imagine you need to Process a big query with my school So what you will need you will have indexes you will like to have indexes You will also have partitioning and What is for for single query my school will just read Read data from one partition if you Created it's Properly wisely There is also possible sharding which is not built in but you can implement sharding with my school Spar in its case it doesn't have indexes and I will describe later why It has partitioning but partitioning is not in my school case, but you can process like you can partition your data and you can Calculate Performs calculation on every partition in parallel It also instead of sharding it has like a kind of may produce architecture So it sends processing requests on different nodes So why no indexes? So what is the biggest issue with my school? So it's one query. It's one core So it can my school you can use multiple cores if you have many queries But it cannot use multiple multiple cores if you have only one One query if you like have like terabytes of petabytes of data for this table you just And you have it's only one query you will use one one cpu core no matter how much your machine has For spark it has no indexes. It's this practically full table scan But it's full table scan is scans only part of tables in In multiple frets and in the parallel. So it's if you have like If you have like one machine with multiple cores, it's you can have data this split on parts and Scan them in parallel by every core if you have multiple nodes, you can have multiple nodes you can split data by Differently on then and again perform this Calculation on these nodes and again each node can have calculation in parallel This leads to high latency because after this Result set You have to combine it into single results. So it's it will take actually its latency depends from No, it's like for any my school cluster. It's like Not have to communicate So why is spark doesn't use indexes well, it's How many if you work with indexes in my school? So I think you can imagine what happens what if you create the index for petabyte of data or if you update index or if you Just read a terabyte index Not not fast not fast full scan in parallel could be much easier okay, so etl pipeline so what is Extract transform load so in my school it works like you can extract data from source Transform it's before loading So this Before loading because it must be valid and must be in format which my school understand and only then it's insert into my school So you will spend a lot of time here No, it's also here because you will load petabytes of data and only after that you can actually process your data For spark you can again you are extracting the data. You don't save anything But then you can just load you don't transform it. So this is You load data as you get it. So you don't need to spend time here, but then you can after Returning results to clients you can transform analyze visualize and do it everything in parallel here So that's called difference like my school is a gem of right This is that means When you load data it has validated It has preform kind of conversion sometimes indirect and also it it will fail if something wrong with your data And also if it's like science No, it's actually it's modern my school storage engines are like in adb are transactional and You it will have rollbacks this transaction. So it will spend time So if you have like you loaded only partial of data, it's maybe nightmare For spark it's scheme on read. So there is no lot data per se. So it can just like Are sync to nodes or are sync to date or just read it And when it's validate data on read it's transform date on read And even if it's something goes wrong on this tape, it's much cheaper cheaper to reject So just reject you don't have to discard anything Example for our example, it's we took a weaker states database which is available from this url It has wiki page access counts It's a base file is this is File is greater than 10 terabytes and here is how it can be downloaded into my school So it's load data in file insert into table fields terminated by It also has a transformation. So that's a slowdown things a little bit too And how much will it take It will take for an adb to will take 50 seconds for my 11 seconds So one hour it will take one minute and one year will take six days and six years Years will take greater than One month to load Loading wiki state in to spark will be much more easy. It's just copy files to any storage you like and then Create sql over a structure over it or Create retic vs or aggregate it and transform it and load it's for example in my school, but processing parallel. So You have like not all 10 terabytes, but only data you need For this Here is an example. It's not our example. It's example. It's spark summit about loading data Into spark it's without my school involvement. It's took 45 Seconds for scanning the four and a half terabytes of data impressive Why because pipelines It's it's better to compare with pipelines. Well my school. It's one pipeline and spark It's like multiple multiple multiple so much bigger throughput. It's much More job can be done at the same time So how the spark works here on the left in the green boxes. It's how we will process my school My school query my school bill query. First we run select and for Spark it will just like lines read file. So nothing Then we run where for for Spark this will be like Mapping them Which lines are we are going to read Then for group by it's It's Practically data processing and out file. We will write to either like in first row is to My school and second row is we can write like for example to park it file. This is column not storage and actually there are many began switch we can Save data to Here is example of how to save results to my school. This is I think So just It's pretty pretty easy And here are what happens after you run this code. So it's show process list output. So I think it explains a lot So this spark split all the data into multiple requests and They are massively parallel. So we are it's now here with spark my school can use Can explore its own ways and it's explore multiple cpu course and here is the confirmation Uh, so multiple cpu course and uh, that's uh, I think it's a pretty easy code Besides it's pressing it's um, uh, there is P spark shell which allows you to monitor Spark job. This is it has nice graphical user interface so you can see what is going on And uh, practically you can find out What happens with particle job this job file it with because table was full but you can read it's what happens Yeah Okay, so we put all data into Into We read all wikis wiki states and uh, now let's uh try to use spark for reads and for a data analysis For this comparing, uh, which would want to know that's uh, We want to find uh, 10 most uh, frequent uh, frequently queried queried wiki pages in uh, January 2008 and for my school it took To receive only this 10 rows took one hour 22 minutes And uh, with uh, spark it took Uh, uh, last uh, last time it's 20 minutes Impressive Okay, uh, so what else so it's also, uh, we have like, um This talk it's about a patch drill. Uh, you can also use a patch drill. This a patch drill is, um, A little bit competing solution, but also can use together. It's allows to access, uh, data Uh, data sources differently and uh, uh, 3 mrs. SQL it can query mongo db with sql and it can query Both mysql and mongo db compile combine the results together. So that's uh, In other great tool for uh, data analysis magic Quite not easy. It's, um Just to recap, um mysql and spark are um Mysql and spark are Difference and Watches the difference. So what's uh, you know, these two to five points. So mysql it's uh, searches Uh full data set, uh, which must uh, which may be pre-filtered it not aggregated But for spark data set is already that means that's uh, it's just can read any data set for Uh Prepared from application from file. It's can be filtered like only on site like in case if you Shard data on Geographically on so Mysql doesn't support parallelism if you run a single query Spark supports parallelism and it's also supports parallelism on all levels from having from um multiple cores on single machine and to uh multiple nodes Um Mysql is based on index Um spark is not based on index, but uh having it's uh does everything in parallel. This doesn't Uh, Doesn't it is is is is not bad. It's uh work good for A big data For in the dp if like uh, if you I think we have It's uh for in the for For mysql it doesn't have no it's actually it has column storage. I think it's Maria dp, but Even in any case it has to Has to convert data into column storage for example, so this is uh in between between this And in spark if you want uh column storage you can get it just like Specifying like uh work if you want to work like in the solution like park it that not with mysql Uh partitioning for mysql it's for single query that means no it's actually for anyway it means like partition use it only to select Select data which is Do access and if you like need to process data from two partitions You cannot you will process data from one partition and then from another for Spark partitioning you will process Data from both partitions and it's the same time and then combine results So in my opinion, that's uh you can If you need to work with big data if you need to make Big analysis Combining this together can get the best results. It's uh luxury of sql. It's easy to use sql. It's uh Which we prefer to use and uh massively Parallelism which makes it's really uh that such queries really efficient Thank you, uh, it's actually you can use No almost same uh dialect way like mysql It's it's not it's it's not like mysql. It's not like exactly mysql the dialect, but Thank you svetter. Thank you. Alex if he sees us on the streaming


I just want to break in here for a minute and share with the folks out there some breaking news coming on siliconangle.com. Mark Hopkins just gave me a note that Xbox is announcing, Microsoft with Xbox is announcing an E3 in LA, live TV to the Xbox with partners like NBA, NHL, MLB and ESPN, 24-7 ESPN coverage and soon hope to have the Cube on Xbox with our 24-7 coverage, but big news Dave about Microsoft with Xbox, which essentially is a platform, a media platform.  Again, just another success point for Xbox and Microsoft and I think that franchise is going to soon dwarf Windows in terms of relevance. It's one of the most relevant parts of Microsoft, wouldn't you say? Yeah, I mean you look at Windows, Windows 8 trying to reboot and get that franchise going on the ground and I actually own the URL WTunes and waiting for the buyout for that one, but Windows is just not that relevant brand anymore, Dave. It's Xbox is really the key and Mark Hopkins has always been editor at SiliconANGLE, always been saying that Xbox should be the platform for the phone, for Microsoft. So just interesting news, so break into the action here at IBM, obviously IBM enables companies like Xbox to do all this kind of stuff and enables media companies in general with NAB.


CHAPTER XXII Doggy, the lightest-hearted private in the British army, danced, in a metaphorical sense, back to London, where he stayed for the rest of his leave at his rooms in open place, took his wholesome fill of theatres and music halls, going to those parts of the house where Tommy's congregate, and bought an old crowned army dinner-service as a wedding-present for Peggy and Oliver, a torsos-shell-fitted dressing-case for Peggy, and for Oliver a magnificent gold watch that was an encyclopedia of current information. He never felt so happy in his life, so enchanted with the grimly smiling old world. Were it not for the Bosch, it could hold its own as a brave place with any planet going. He blessed Oliver, who in turn had blessed him as though he had displayed heroic magnanimity. He blessed Peggy, who flushed with love and happiness and gratitude, and shown him for the first time what a really adorable young woman she could be. He thanked heaven for making three people happy, instead of three people miserable. He marched along the wet pavements with a new light in his eyes, with a new exhilarating breath in his nostrils. He was free. The war over, he could do exactly what he liked. An untrammeled future labour for him. During the war he could hop about trenches and shell-holes with the freedom of a bird. Those awful duty letters to Peggy. Only now he fully realized their never-ending strain. Now he could write to her spontaneously, whenever the mood suited, write to her from his heart. Dear old Peggy, I'm so glad you're happy. Oliver's a splendid chap, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. He had lost a dreaded bride, but he had found a dear and devoted friend. Nay more, he had found two devoted friends. When he dropped his account with humanity, he found himself passing rich in love. His furlough expired, he reported at his depot, and was put on light duty. He went about it the cheeriest soul alive and laughed at the joy of his former miseries as a recruit. This camp-life in England, after the mud and blood of France, like the African gentleman in Mr. Addison's Cato, he blessed his stars and thought it luxury. He was not sorry that the exigencies of service prevented him from being present at the wedding of Oliver and Peggy, for it was the most sudden of the moment, like the fight of two rams, as Shakespeare have it. In wartime people marry in haste, and often, dear God, they have not the leisure to repent. Since the beginning of the war, there are many, many women, twice widowed. But that is the way. Doggie was grateful to an ungrateful military-system. If he had attended, in the capacity of best man, so please you, so violent and unreasoning had Oliver's affection become. Durdlery would have gaped and whispered behind his hand, and made things uncomfortable for everybody. Doggie, from the security of his regiment, wished them joy by letter and telegram, and sent them the wedding-presence, so foresaid. Then for a season there were three happy people, at least, in this war-wilderness of suffering. The newly-wedded pair went off for a honeymoon, whose promise of indefinite length was eventually cut short by an unromantic war-office. Oliver returned to his regiment in France, and Peggy to the denry, where she sat among her wedding-presence and her hopes for the future. "'I never realise, my dear,' said the dean to his wife. "'What a remarkably pretty girl Peggy has grown into!' "'It's because she's got the man she loves,' said Mrs. Conover. "'Do you think that's the reason?' "'I've known the plenest of women become quite good-looking. In the early days of our married life,' she smiled, "'even I was not quite unattractive.' The old dean bent down. She was sitting, and he's standing, and lifted her chin with his forefinger. "'You, my dear, have always been by far the most beautiful woman of my acquaintance.' "'We're talking of Peggy,' smiled Mrs. Conover. "'Ah!' said the dean. So we were. I was saying that the child's happiness was reflected in her face.' "'I rather saw to I,' said it, dear,' replied Mrs. Conover. "'It doesn't matter,' said her husband, who was first a man and then a dean. He waved a hand in benign dismissal of the argument. "'It's a great mercy,' said he, that she's married the man she loves instead of, well, Marbeduke has turned out a capital fellow and a credit to the family, but I never was quite easy in my mind over the engagement. And yet he continued after a turn or two about the room. "'I'm rather conscious-stricken about Marbeduke, poor chap.   But all the same, no man likes to see another fellow walk off with his sweetheart.' "'I don't think Marbeduke was ever so bucked in his life,' said Mrs. Conover, pleasantly. "'So?' the dean gasped. His wife's smile playing ironically among her wrinkles was rather beautiful. "'Peggy's word, Edward, not mine. The modern vocabulary.' "'Why, I know what that hideous word means. It was your use of it that caused her to shiver down my spine. But why, bucked?' "'It appears there's a girl in France.' "'Oh,' said the dean. Who is she?' "'That's what Peggy even now would give a good deal to find out.' "'For Doggy had told Peggy nothing more about the girl in France. Jean was his own precious secret. That it was shared by Phineas and Moe didn't matter. To discuss her with Peggy, besides being irrelevant in the circumstances, was quite another affair. Indeed, when he had avowed the girl in France, it was not so much a confession as a garnet desire to help Peggy out of her predicament. For after all, what was Jean but a beloved war-race that had passed through his life and disappeared?' "'The development of Marmaduke,' said the dean, is not the least extraordinary phenomenon of the war.' Now that Doggy had gained his freedom, Jean ceased to be a wraith. She became once again a wonderful thing of flesh and blood, towards whom all his young, fresh instinct yearned tremendously. One day it struck his ingenuous mind that, if Jean were willing, there could be no possible reason why he should not marry her. Who was to say him nay, convention? He put all the conventions of his life under the auctioneer's hammer. The family. He pictured a meeting between Jean and the kind and courteous old dean. It could not be other than an episode of beauty. All he had to do was to seek out Jean and begin his wooing in earnest. The simplest adventure in the world for a well-to-do and unattached young man, if only that young man had not been a private soldier on active service. That was the rub. Doggy passed his hand over his hair ruefully. How on earth could he get to Freilu again? Not till the end of the war, at any rate, which might be years hence. There was nothing for it but a resumption of intimacy by letter. Say he wrote to Jean the letter which loitered to Peggy had made him destroy weeks ago. But no answer came. Then he wrote another, telling her of Peggy and his freedom and his love and his hopes. And to that, there came no reply. A preprayed telegram produced no result. Doggy began to despair. What had happened to Jean? Why did she persist in ruining him out of her existence? Was it because in spite of her gratitude she wanted none of his love? He sat on the railing on the sea-front of the south-coast town where he was courted, and looked across the channel in dismayed apprehension.  What could there possibly be a little Doggy Trevor to inspire a romantic passion in any woman's heart? Take Peggy's case. As soon as a real genuine fellow like Oliver came along, Peggy's heart flew out to him like needle-to-magnet. Even had he been of Oliver's paradigm mold, what right had he to expect Jean to give him all the wonder of herself after a four-day's acquaintance? Being what he was, just little Doggy Trevor, the assumption was an impertinence. She had shot at herself from it behind a barrier of silence. A girl, a thing of low-cut blouse, truncated skirts, and cheap silk stockings, who had been leaning unnoticed for some time on the rails by his side, spoke. You seem to be pretty lonely. Doggy swirled round. Yes, I am, darn lonely. Come for a walk, or take me to the pictures. And then, asked Doggy, swinging to his feet, if we get on all right we can fix up something for tomorrow. She was pretty, with a fair, frizzy, insolent prettiness. She might have been any age from fourteen to four and twenty. Doggy smiled, tempted to wail away a dark hour. But he said honestly, I'm afraid I should be a dull companion. What's the matter? she laughed. Lost your best girl. Something like that. He waved a hand across the sea. Over there. French. Ow! she drew herself up. Aren't English girls good enough for you? When they're sympathetic, they're delightful, said he. Ow! you make me tired. Goodbye! she snapped and stalked away. After a few yards she'd lanced over her shoulder to see whether he was following. But Doggy remained by the railings. Presently he shrugged his shoulders and went off to a picture-parise by himself, and thought wistfully of Jean. And Jean? Well, Jean was no longer at Freilu, for there came a morning when Aunt Morin was found dead in her bed. The old doctor came and spread out his thin hands and said, Imiin, and Kevulevou, and it was bound to happen sooner or later, and murmured learned words. The old curie came and a neighbour or two, and candles were put round the coffin, and the pomp of Funibre draped the front steps and entrance and vestibule in heavy black. And as soon as was possible Aunt Morin was laid to rest in the little cemetery adjoining the church, and Jean went back to the house with Twanette alone in the wide world. And because there had been a death in the place, the billeted soldiers went about the courtyard very quietly. Since Phineas and Moe and Doggy's regiment had gone away, she had devoted with a new passionate zeal all the time she could spare from the sick woman to the comforts of the men. No longer restrained by the tightly-drawn purse-strings of Aunt Morin, but with money of her own to spend, and money restored to her by these men's dear and heroic comrade, she could give them unexpected treats of rich coffee and milk, fresh eggs, fruit. She mended and darned for them and suborned old women to help her. She conspired with the town mayor to render the granary more habitable, and the town mayor, who had not to issue a return for a sound team's expense, received all her suggestions with courteous enthusiasm. Twanette, taking good care to impress upon every British soldier who could understand her, the fact that to Mamoiselle personally and individually he was indebted for all these luxuries, the fame of Jean began to spread through that sector of the front behind which lay Frélu. Concurrently spread the story of Doggy Trevor's exploit. Jean became a legendary figure, save to those thrice-fortunate who habilited enverve Morin a fil, mocha des foins en gros et de tal, and these, according to their several stolid British ways, bowed down and worshipped before the slim French girl with the tragic eyes, and when they departed, confirmed the legend and made things nasty for the sceptically superior private. So on the day of the funeral of Aunt Morin, the whole of the billets sent in a wreath to the house, and the whole of the billet attended the service in the little church, and they marched back and drew up by the front door a guard of honour extending a little distance down the road. The other men billeted of the village hung around together with the remnant of the inhabitants, old men, women and children, but kept quite clear of the guarded path through which Jean was to pass. One or two officers looked on curiously, but they stood in the background, it was none of their business. If the men in their free time chose to put themselves on parade without arms, of course, so much the better for the army. Then Jean and the old curé in his time's guard shovel-hat and his rusty sultan, followed by Toinette, turned round the core of the lane and emerged into the main street. A sergeant gave a word of command. The guard stood at attention. Jean and her companions proceeded up the street, unaware of the unusual, until they entered between the first two files. Then for the first time the tears welled into Jean's eyes. She could only stretch out her hands and cry somewhat wildly to the bronze statues on each side of her. Merci, mes amis, merci, merci, and flee into the house. The next day, Maître Pépinot, the notary, summoned her to his cabinet. Maître Pépinot was very old. His partner had gone off to the war. One of the necessities of the present situation, he would say, is that I should go on living in spite of myself. For if I died, the whole of the affairs of Freilou would be in the soup. Now, a fort night back, Maître Pépinot and four neighbours, the four witnesses required by French law, when there is only one nature to draw up the Ornt-Stremont public, had visited Aunt Marat. So Jean knew that she had made a fresh will. Mon orphans, said the old man, unfolding the document. In a previous will, your aunt had left you a little heritage out of the half of her fortune which she was freed to dispose of by the court. You having come into possession of your own money, she has reforged that will, and left everything to her only surviving son, Gaspar Marat in Madagascar. It is only just and right, said Jean. The unfortunate part of the matter, said Maître Pépinot, is that Marat Marat has appointed official trustees to carry on the estate until M. Gaspar Marat can make his own arrangements. The result is that you have no locals standing as a resident in the house. I appointed this out to her. But you know, in spite of her good qualities, she was obstinate. It pains me greatly, my dear child, to have to state your position. I am then, said Jean, sans assil, homeless. As far as the house of M. Gaspar Marat is concerned, yes. And my English soldiers asked Jean. Alas, my child, replied the old man, you will find them everywhere. Which was cold consolation. For however much inspired by patriotic gratitude a French girl may be, she cannot settle down in a strange place where British troops abilted and proceed straight away to minister to their comfort. Misunderstandings are apt to arise even in the best regulated British regiments. In the house of Aunt Marat in Freloux, her position was unassainable. Anywhere else. So, my good Twanette, said Jean, after having explained the situation to the indignate old woman, I can only go back to my friend in Paris and reconstitute my life, if you will accompany me. But no, Twanette had the peasant's awful dread of Paris. She'd heard about Paris. There were thieves, ruffians that they called Apache, who murdered you if you went outside your door. The Apache, laughed Jean, was swept away into the army on the outbreak of war, and they nearly all been killed, fighting like heroes. There are the old ones left who are worse than the young, retorted Twanette. No, Mamazelle could teach her nothing about Paris. You could not even cross a street without risk of life. So many were the omnibuses and automobiles. In every shop you were a stranger to be robbed. There was no air in Paris. You could not sleep for the noise. And then, to live in a city of a hundred million people and not know a living soul, it was a madhouse matter. Again, no. It grieved her to part from Mamazelle, but she made her little economies a difficult achievement, considering how, regardless of her pence, Madame had been, and she would return to her Breton town, which forty years ago she had left to enter the service of Madame Moran. But after forty years, Twanette, who in Pimpolle will remember you? It is I who remember Pimpolle, said Twanette. She remained for a few moments in thought. Then she said, C'est dros tout le mème. I haven't seen the sea for forty years, and now I can't sleep a thickie of it. The first man I loved was a fisherman of Pimpolle. We were but to be married after he returned from an Iceland voyage, with our gross benefits. When the time came for his return, I would stand on the shore and watch, and watch the sea. But he never came. The sea swallowed him up. And then he could understand quite well that child was born dead. And I thought I would never want to look at the sea again. So I came here to your Aunt Moran, the daughter of Dr. Kersadak, your grandfather, and I married Jules Dugnor, the foreman of the Carters of the Haye. And he died a long time ago. And now I have forgotten him, and I want to go and look at the sea where my man was drowned. But your grandson, who is fighting in the Argonne, what difference can it make to him whether I am in Frédoux or Pimpolle? That's true, said Jean. Twanette bustled about the kitchen. Folks had to eat whatever happened. But she went on talking, madame Moran. One must not speak evil of the dead. They have their work cut out to extricate themselves from purgatory. But all the same, after forty years faithful service, and not to mention in the will, Jean agreed. She had no reason to love her Aunt Moran. Her father's people came from Argonne on the confines of Gascony. He'd been a man of great gestures and vehement speech. Her mother, gentle, reserved, un bon devote. Jean drew her character from both sources, but her sympathies were rather southern than northern. For some reason or the other, perhaps for his expansive ways, who knows, Aunt Moran had held the late Monsieur Bossiere in detestation. She had no love for Jean, and Jean, who before her good fortune had expected nothing from Aunt Moran, regarded the will with feelings of indifference. Except as far as you're concerned, Twanette. Forty years of faithful service deserve recognition. But what was the use of talking about it? So we must separate, Twanette. Alas, yes, Mamazelle. Unless Mamazelle would come with me to Pompolle. Jean laughed. What should she do in Pompolle? There wasn't even a fisherman left there to fall in love with. Mamazelle, said Twanette later, do you think you will meet the little English soldier, Monsieur Trevor, in Paris? Dans la guerre on ne se va revoir jamais, Saint-Jean. But there was more of personal decision than of fatalism in her tone. Saint-Jean waited for a day or two until the regiment arched away, and then, with heavy heart, set out for Paris. She wrote, indeed, to Phineas, and weeks afterwards Phineas, who was in the thick of the Somme fighting, wrote to Doggy, telling him of her departure from Freilou, but regretted that as he had lost her letter he could not give him her Paris address. And in the meantime the house of Gaspard Morin was shuttered and locked and sealed, and the bureaucratically minded old postmaster of Freilou had received no instructions from Jean to forward her correspondence, handed Doggy's letters and telegrams to the aged postman, a superannuated herdsman, who stuck them into the letter-box of the deserted house, and went away conscious of duty perfectly accomplished. Then, at last, Doggy, fit again for active service, went out with a draft to France, and joined Phineas and Moe, almost the only survivors of the cheery, familiar crowd that he had loved, and the grimace of battles such as she had never conceived possible, took him in its inexorable grip, and he lost sense of everything save that he was the least important thing on God's earth, struggling desperately for animal existence. Yet there were rare times of relief from stress, when he could gropingly string together the facts of a pre-Somme existence, and then he would curse Phineas lustily for losing the precious letter. Man, Phineas once replied, don't you see that you're breaking a heart which, in spite of its apparent rugosity and calocity, is as tender as the new-made mother's? Tell me to do it, and I'll desert, and make my way to Paris, and the military police will see that you make your way to hell via stone wall, and serve you right.    Blast this rain! Phineas thrust his hand beneath his clothing, and produced a long, amorphous, and repulsive substance, like a painted, tarot candle overcome by intense heat, from which he gravely bitten in short two. What's that? asked Doggy. It's a stick of peppermint, said Phineas. I still an-aunt in galler-shields who remembers my existence.  He was selfish beast, he said. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 The fighting went on, and, to Doggy, the inhabitants of the outside world became almost as phantasmagorical as Phineas's providential aunt in galler-shields. Immediate existence held him. In an historic battle, Moe Schengish fell with a machine-bullet through his heart. Doggy, staggering with the rest of the company to the attack over the muddy, shell-torn ground, saw him go down a few yards away. It was not till later that he knew he had gone west with many other great souls. Doggy and Phineas mourned for him as a brother. Without him, France was a muddier and a bloodier place, and the outside world more unreal than ever. Then to Doggy came a heartbroken letter from the dean. Oliver had gone the same road as Moe. Peggy with frantic with grief. Vividly Doggy saw the peaceful denry on which all the calamity of all the war had crashed with sudden violence. Why I should thank God we parted as friends. I don't quite know, said Doggy. But I do. I suppose, laddie, said Phineas, it's good to feel that smiling eyes and hearty hands will greet us when we too pass over the border. My God, man, he added reflectively after a pause. Have you ever considered what a goodly company it will be? When you come but look at it that way, it makes death quite a trivial affair. I suppose it does to us while we're here, said Doggy. We've seen such a lot of it. But to those who happened, my poor Peggy, it's the end of her universe. Yes, it was all very well to take death philosophically, or fatalistically, or callously, or whatever you like to call it, out there, where such an attitude was the only stand against raving madness. But at home, beneath the grey mass of the cathedral, folks met death as a strange and cruel horror. The new glory of life that Peggy had found, he had blackened out in an instant. Doggy looked again at the old man's letter, his handwriting was growing shaky, and forgot for a while the familiar things around him, and lived with Peggy in her sorrow. Then, as far as Doggy's sorely-tried division was affected, came the end of the great autumn fighting. He found himself well behind the lines in reserve, and so continued during the cold dreary winter months. And the more the weeks that crept by, and the more remote seemed Jean, the more Doggy hungered for the sight of her. But all this period of his life was but a done, coloured monotony, with but few happenings to distinguish week from week. Most of the company that had marched with him into Freilu were dead or wounded. Nearly all the officers had gone. Captain Willoughby, who had interrogated Jean with regard to the restored packet, and on Doggy's return, had informed him with a friendly smile, that they were a damn sight too busy than to worry about defaulters of the likes of him, but that he was going to be caught marbled on shot as soon as peace was declared, when they would have time to think of serious matters. Captain Willoughby had gone to Blighty with a leg so mauled that never would he command again a company in the field.  A scientific and sporty helper at rear Hampton, he informed Doggy by letter, was busily engaged on the invention of a boxing glove, which would have been enabled him to carry on his pugilistic career. So in future times, said he, if any of your friends among them in nobility and gentry want lessons in the noble art, don't forget your old friend Banningall. Where at, incidentally, Doggy wondered. Never for a fraction of a second during their common military association had Banningall given him to understand that he regarded him otherwise than as a mere tommy without any pretensions to gentility. There had been times when Banningall had cursed him, perhaps justifiably and perhaps lovingly, as though he had been the scum of the earth. Doggy would no more have dared address him in terms of familiarity than he would have dared slap the brigadier general on the back, and now the honest warrior sought Doggy's patronage. Of the original crowd in England who had transformed Doggy's military existence by making him penny-whistler to the company, only Phineas and himself were left. There were others, of course, good and gallant fellows with whom he became bound in the rough intimacy of the army, but of the first friends, those under whose protecting kindness his manhood had developed were the dearest, and their ghosts remained dear. At last the division was moved up, and there was more fighting. One day, after a successful raid, Doggy tumbled back with the rest of the men to the trench, and looking about, missed Phineas.  I'm alive all right, laddie," he gasped, contorting his lips into a smile. I've got it cleaned through the chest like a gentleman, but it gures me great I cannot look after you any longer. He made an attempt at waving a hand, and the stretcher-bearers carried him away out of the army, forever. Thereafter Doggy felt the loneliest thing on earth, like Wordsworth's Cloud or The Last Man in Tom Hood's grim poem, for was he not The Last Man of the original company, as he had joined it hundreds of years ago, in England? It was only then that he realised fully the merits of the wasteful Phineas McPhail. Not once or twice, but a thousand times, had the man's vigilant affection veiled under cynical humour, saved him from despair. Not once, but a thousand times, had the gaunt, tireless Scotchman saved him from physical exhaustion. At every turn of his career, since his enlistment, Phineas had been there, watchful, helpful, devoted. There he had been, always ready and willing to be cursed. To curse him had been the great comfort of Doggy's life. Whom could he curse now? Not a soul. No one at any rate against whom he could launch an anathema with any real heart in it. Cursed vainly and superficially, far better not to curse at all. He missed Phineas beyond all his conception of the blankness of bereavement. Like himself, Phineas had found salvation in the army.  No woman could it be more gentle, more unselfish. What the devil am I going to do? said Doggy. Meanwhile Phineas, lying in a London hospital with a bullet through his body, fought munch and earnestly of his friend, and one morning Peggy got a letter. Dear madam, time was when I could not have addressed you without incurring your not unjustifiable disapproval, but take the liberty of doing so now, trusting to your generous acquiescence in the proposition that the war had purged many offenses. If this had not happened to some extent in my case, I do not see how it had been possible for me to have regained and retained the trust and friendship of so sensitive and honorable a gentleman as Mr. Marama Duke Trevor. If I ask you to come and see me here, where I am lying severely wounded, it is not with an intention to solicit a favour for myself personally, although I will not deny that the sight of a kind of familiar face would be a boon to a lonely and friendless man, but with a deep desire to advance Mr. Trevor's happiness. Lest you may imagine I am committing an unpardonable impertinence, and thereby totally misunderstand me, I may say that this happiness can only be achieved by the aid of powerful friends both in London and Paris. It is only because the lad is the one thing dear to me left in the world that I venture to intrude on your privacy at such a time. I am, dear madam, yours very faithfully, Phineas McPhail. Peggy came down to breakfast and, having dutifully kissed her parents, announced her intention of going to London by the eleven o'clock train. Why, how can you, my dear? asked Mrs. Conover. I have nothing particular to do here for the next few days. Neither of us can start off to London at a moment's notice. Peggy replied with a one smile. But, dearest mother, you forget I am an old, old married woman. Besides, my dear, said the dean, Peggy has often gone away by herself. But never to London, said Mrs. Conover. Anyhow, I've got to go. Peggy turned to the old butler. Ring up, Sterexes, and tell them I'm coming. Oh, yes, miss, said Burford. He's as bad as you are, mother, said Peggy. So she went up to London and stayed the night at Sterexes alone for the first time in her life. She half had a lonely, execrable, war dinner in the stuffy old-fashioned dining-room, served ceremoniously by the ancient head-waiter, the friend of her childhood, who, in view of her recent widowhood, addressed her in the muffled tones of the sympathetic undertaker. Peggy nearly cried. She wished she had chosen another hotel. But where else could she have gone? She'd stayed at few hotels in London—once at the Savoy, once at Carriages—every other time at Sterexes. The Savoy, its vastness had frightened her. And Carriages? No, that was sanctified for ever. Oliver, in his lordly way, had snapped his fingers at Sterexes. Only the best was good enough for Peggy. Now only Sterexes remained. She sought her room immediately after the dreary meal, and sat before the fire. It was a damp, chill February night, and thought miserable and aching thoughts. It happened to be the same room which you'd occupied, or thousands of years ago, on the night when Doggy, point device in new Savoy-rail uniform, had taken her to dinner at the Carlton. And she'd sat, in the same imitation child's the second brocaded chair, looking into the same generous old-fashioned fire, thinking, thinking. And she remembered, clenching her fist and apostrophizing the fire, and crying out aloud, Oh my God, if only he makes good! Oceans of years lay between then and now. Doggy had made good. Every man who came home wounded must have made good. Poor old Doggy. But high in the name of all that was meant by the word love, she could ever have contemplated, as she had contemplated with an obstinate, virginal loyalty, married with Doggy, she could not understand. She undressed, brought the straight-backed chair close to the fire, and in her dainty night-gown, part of her trusso, sat elbow on knee, face in thin, clutching hands, slippered feet on fender, thinking, thinking, once again. Thinking now of the gates of paradise that had opened to her for a few brief weeks, of the man who never had to make a good, being the wonder of wonders of men, the delicious companion, the incomparable lover, the all-compelling revealer, the great gay scarcity to her woman's limited pyrovision, comprehended heroic soldier. Of the terrifying meanlessness of life, now that her God or very God in human form had been swept in an instant off the earth into the unknown. Yet was life meaningless after all? There must be some significance, some inner truth veiled in mystery, behind even the casually accepted and never-probed religion to which she had been born, and which she had found poor refuge. For like many of her thoughtless, unquestioning class, she had looked at Christ through stained glass windows, and now the windows were darkened. For the first time in her life her soul groped intensely towards eternal verities. The fire burned low, and she shivered. She became again the bit of human flotsam, cruelly buffeted by the waves, forgotten of God. Yet, after she had risen and crept into bed, and while she was staring into the darkness, her heart became filled with a vast pity for the thousands and thousands of women, her sisters, who at that moment were staring hopeless like her into the unrelenting night. She did not fall asleep till early morning. She rose late. About half-past eleven as she was preparing to walk abroad on a dreary shopping excursion, the hospital visiting-hour was in the afternoon, a telegram arrived from the dean. Just heard that Marmaduke is severely wounded. She scarcely recognized the young private tutor of Denby Hall, in the elderly man with a deeply furrowed face, who smiled as she approached his bed. She had brought him flowers, cigarettes of the exquisite kind that doggy used to smoke, chocolates. She sat down by his bedside. All of this is more than gracious, Mrs. Manning-3, said Phineas, to a vire rodier like me it is a wee bit overwhelming. It is very little to do for Doggy's best friend. Phineas' eyes twinkled. If you call him Doggy like that, maybe it won't be so difficult for me to talk to you. Why should he be so difficult at all? she asked. We both love him.  The girl in France? He put out a bony hand and regarded her in some disappointment. Has he told you? Perhaps you know all about it. I know nothing except that a girl in France was all he told me. But first about yourself. How badly are you wounded, and what can we do for you? She dragged from a reluctant Phineas the history of his wound, and obtained confirmation of his statement from a nurse who happened to pass up the gangway of the Pleasant Ward, unlingered by the bedside. McPhail was doing splendidly. Of course, a man with a hole through his body must be expected to go back to the regime of babyhood. So long as he behaved himself like a well-conducted baby, all would be well. Peggy drew the nurse a few yards away. I've just heard that his dearest friend out there, a boy whom he loves dearly, and has been through the whole thing with him in the same company. It's odd, but he was his private tutor years ago. Both gentlemen, you know. In fact, I'm here just to talk about the boy. Peggy grew somewhat incoherent. Well, I've just heard that the boy has been seriously wounded. Shall I tell him? I think it would be better to wait for a few days. Any shot like that sends up their temperatures. We hate temperatures, and we're getting his down so nicely. All right, said Peggy, and she went back smiling to Phineas. She says you're getting on amazingly, Mr. McPhail. Said Phineas, I'm grateful to you, Mrs. Manning-3, for concerning herself about my entirely unimportant carcass. Now, as Virgil says, polo majoro canemus. You have me there, Mr. McPhail, said Peggy. Well, said Phineas, to begin at the beginning, we marched into a place called Frerou. In his bedantic way he began to tell her the story of Jean, so far as he knew it. He told her of the girl standing in the night wind and rain on the bluff by the turning of the road. He told her of Doggy's insane adventure across no man's land to the farm of Lafollette. Tears rolled down Peggy's cheeks. She cried, incredulous. Doggy did that. Doggy! It was child's play to what he had to do at Garretacourt. But Peggy waved away the vague heroism of Garretacourt. Doggy did that for a woman. The whole elaborate structure of her conception of Doggy tumbled down like a house of cards. I, said Phineas, he did that. Phineas had given an imaginative and picturesque account of the episode. For this girl, Jean, it is a strange coincidence, Mrs. Maddin III, replied Phineas, with a flicker of his lips elusively suggestive of anxiousness, that almost those identical words were used by mademoiselle Bacier in my presence. But he will pardon me for saying it with a difference of intonation, which, as a woman, no doubt you will be able to divine and appreciate. I know, said Peggy. She went forward and picked with finger and thumb at the fluff of the blanket. Then she said, intent on the fluff. If a man had done a thing like that for me, I should have crawled after him to the ends of the earth. Presently she looked up with a flash of the eyes. Why isn't this girl doing it? You must listen to the end of the story, said Phineas. I may tell you that I always regarded myself, with my scotch caution, as a model of tact and discretion, but after many conversations with Doggy, I'm beginning to have my doubts. I also imagined that I was very careful of my personal belongings, but facts have convicted me of criminal laxity. Peggy smiled. That sounds like a confession, Mr. McPhail. Maybe it's in the nature of one, he assented. But by your leave, Mrs. Maddin III, I'll resume my narrative. He continued the story of Jean. How she'd learned through him of Doggy's wealth and position and early upbringing, of the memorable dinner-party with poor Moe, of Doggy's sensitive interpretation of her French bourgeois attitude, and finally the loss of the letter containing her address in Paris. After he had finished, Peggy sat for a long while thinking. The romance in Doggy's life had moved her as she thought she could never be moved since the death of Oliver. Her thoughts winged themselves back to an afternoon, remote almost as her socked and sashed childhood, when Doggy, immaculately attired in gray and pearl harmonies, had declared, with his little effeminate droll, that tennis made one so terribly hot. The scene in the Deenery Garden flashed before her. It was succeeded by a scene in the Deenery drawing-room, when, to herself indignant, he pleaded his delicacy of constitution. And the same Doggy, besides braving death for a thousand times in the ordinary execution of his soldier's duties, had performed this queer deed of heroism for a girl. Then his return to Dirtlebury. I'm afraid, she said suddenly. I was dreadfully unkind to him when he came home the last time. I didn't understand. Did he tell you? Phineas stretched out a hand, and with the tips of his fingers touched her sleeve. Mrs. Manning III, he said softly, don't you know that Doggy's a very wonderful gentleman? Again her eyes grew moist. Yes, I know. Of course, he never would have mentioned it. I thought Mr. McPhail he had deteriorated. God forgive me. I thought he had corsened and got into the ways of an ordinary tommy, and I was snobbish and uncomprehending and horrible. It seems as if I am making a confession now. I, why not? If it were not for the soul's health, the ancient church wouldn't have instituted the practice. She regarded him shrewdly for a second. You've changed, too. Maybe, said Phineas, it's an ill war that blows nobody good, but I'm not complaining of this one. But you were talking of your mis-comprehension of Doggy. I behaved very badly to him, she said, picking again at the blanket.  But I've learned better since then. I remarked Phineas gravely. Mr. McPhail, she said after a pause, it wasn't those rotten ideas that prevented me from marrying him. I know, my dear little lady, said Phineas, grasping the plucking hand. You just love the other man as you never could have loved Doggy, and there's an end to it. Love just happens. It's the holiest thing in the world. She turned her hand, sows to meet his in a mutual clasp, and withdrew it. You're very kind, and sympathetic, and understanding. Her voice broke. I soon to have been going about misjudging everybody and everything. I'm beginning to see a little bit, a little bit farther. I can't express myself. Never mind, Mrs. Manningtree, said Phineas soothingly. If you cannot express yourself in words, leave that to the politicians and the philosophers and the theologians, and other such windy expositors of the useless. But you can express yourself in deeds. How? Find Jean, for Doggy.  Does she love him? Really love him, as he deserves to be loved? It is not often, Mrs. Manningtree, that I commit myself to a definite statement. But to my certain knowledge these two are breaking their hearts for each other. Couldn't you find her before the poor lady is killed? He's not killed yet, thank God! said Peggy, with an old thrill in her voice. He was alive, only severely wounded. He would be coming home soon, carried, according to convoy, to any unfriendly hospital dumping-ground in the United Kingdom, if only she could bring this French girl to him. She yearned to make reparation for the past, to act according to the new knowledge that love and sorrow had brought her. But how can I find her? Just a girl, an unknown Marmousel Bossier, among the millions of Paris. I've been racking my brains all the morning, replied Phineas, to recall the address, and out of the darkness there emerges just two words, Port Royal. If you know Paris, does that help you at all? I don't know, Paris, replied Peggy, humbly. I don't know anything. I'm utterly ignorant. I beg entirely to differ from you, Mrs. Manningtree, said Phineas. You have come through much heavy travel to correct the appreciation of the meaning of human love between man and woman, and so you have in you the wisdom of all the ages. Yes, yes, sir Peggy, becoming practical. But Port Royal, the clue to the labyrinth, replied Phineas, end of Chapter 23. Chapter 24 of The Rough Road by William John Locke This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Simon Evers. Chapter 24 The dean of an English cathedral is a personage. He has power. He can stand with folded arms at its doors and forbid entrance to any one, save perhaps the king in person. He can tell not only the bishop of the diocese, but the very arch-bishop of the province, to run away and play. Having power, and using it benignly and graciously, he can exert its subtler form known as influence. In the course of his distinguished career, he is bound to make many queer friends in high places. My dear Field Martial, could you do me a little favour? My dear Ambassador, my daughter, etc., etc. Deans, discreet, dignified gentlemen, who would not demand the impossible, can generally get what they ask for. When Peggy returned to Dirtlebury and put Doggy's case before her father, and with unusual fervour, roused him from his first stupefaction at the idea of her mad project, he said mildly, Let me understand clearly what you want to do. You want to go to Paris by yourself, discover a girl called Jean Bossier, concerning whose address you know nothing but two words, Port Royal. Of course, there is a boulevard, Port Royal, somewhere south of the Luxembourg Gardens. Then we found her, cried Peggy. We only want the number, and please don't interrupt, so the dean, you confuse me, my dear. You want to find this girl and re-establish communication between her and Marmaduke, and generally play Fairy Godmother. If you like to put it that way, said Peggy, Are you quite certain you will be acting wisely from Marmaduke's point of view? Don't call him Marmaduke. She bent forward and touched his knee caressing me. Marmaduke could never have risked his life for a woman. It was Doggy who did it. She thinks of him as Doggy. Everyone thinks of him now, and loves him as Doggy. It was Oliver's name for him, don't you see? And he has stuck it out and made it a sort of title of honour and affection. And it was as Doggy that Oliver learned to love him. And in his last letter to Oliver he signed himself, your devoted Doggy. My dear, smiled the dean and quoted, What's in a name? A rose. Would be unenturable if it were called a bug-squash. The perch would be knocked out of it. The dean said indulgently, So the name Doggy connoted something poetic and romantic. You asked the galgen. The dean tapped the back of his daughter's hand that rested on his knee. There's no fool like an old fool, my dear. Do you know why? She shook her head. Because the old fool has learned to understand the young fool, whereas the young fool doesn't understand anybody. She laughed and threw herself on her knees by his side. Daddy, you're immense! He took the tribute complacently. What was I saying before you interrupted me? Oh, yes, about the wisdom of your proposed action. Are you sure they want each other? As sure as I'm sitting here, said Peggy. Then, my dear, said he, I'll do what I can. Whether he wrote to field marshals and ambassadors or to lesser luminaries, Peggy did not know. The dean observed an old world punctilio about such matters. At the first reply or two to his letters, he frowned. Of the second or two, he smiled, in the way any elderly gentleman may smile, when he finds himself recognized by high admiteness as a person of importance. I think, my dear, said he at last, I've arranged everything for you. So he came to pass that, while doggie with a shattered shoulder and a touched left lung, was being transported from a base hospital in France to a hospital in England, Peggy, armed with all kinds of passports and recommendations, and a very fixed, personal, sanctified idea, was crossing the channel on her way to Paris and Jean. And after all, it was no wild goose chase, but a very simple matter. An urbane elderly person at the British Embassy performed certain telephonic gymnastics. At the end, Merci, Merci, au Dieu! he turned to her. I, representative from the Prefecture of Peace, will wait on you at your hotel at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. The official called, took notes, and confidently assured her that he would retain the address of Mademoiselle Jean-Bossier within twelve hours. But, Herr Monsieur, are you going to do it? asked Peggy. Madame, said he, in spite of the war, the telegraphic, telephonic, and municipal systems of France work in perfect order to say nothing of that of the police. Freilou, I think, is the name of the place she started from? At eight o'clock in the evening, after her lonely dinner in the great hotel, the polite official called again. She met him in the lounge. Madame, said he, I have the pleasure to inform you that Mademoiselle Jean-Bossier, late of Freilou, is living in Paris at 743B Boulevard-Port-Royal, and spends all her days at the Cirque-Salle of the French Red Cross in the Rue Vaud-Girard. Have you seen her and told her? No, madame, that did not come with my instructions. I am infinitely grateful to you, said Peggy. Il n'y a pas de quoi, madame? I perform the tasks assigned to me, I am only too happy, in this case, to have been successful. But, Monsieur, said Peggy, feeling desperately lonely in Paris, and pathetically eager to talk to a human being, even in her rusty, wavy school French, haven't you wondered why I've been so anxious to find this young lady? If we began to wonder, he replied with a laugh, at the things which happened during the war, we should be so bewildered that we shouldn't be able to carry on our work. Madame, said he, handing her his card, if you should have further need of me in the matter, I am always at your service. He bowed profoundly and left her. Peggy stayed at the Ritz because, long ago, when her parents effected her from Viervie, and given her the one wonderful fortnight in Paris she had ever known, they had chosen this dignified and not inexpensive hostery. To her girlish mind is a breath the last word of splendour, movement, gaiety, all that was connoted by the magical name of the city of light. But now that Glamour had departed. She wondered whether it had ever been. Oliver had laughed at her experiences. Sandwiched between dear old Uncle Edward and Aunt Sophia, what in the sacred name of France could she have seen of Paris? Wait till they could turn round. He would take her to Paris.  They dreamed dreams of the Rue de la Paix. He had five hundred pounds laid by, which he had earmarked for an orgy of shopping in that temptation avenue of authority. Of Montmartre, the citadel of delectable wickedness and laughter. Of funny little restaurants in dark streets, where you are delighted to pay twenty francs for a mussel, so squizzedly as it cooked. Of dainty and crazy theatres, of long drives folded in each other's arms, when moonlight touches dawn, through the wonders of the enchanted city. Her brief dreams had eclipsed her girlish memories. Now the dreams have become blurred. She strove to bring them back till her soul ached, till she broke down into miserable weeping. She was alone in a strange, unedifying town in a strange, vast, commonplace hotel. The cold, moonlit plus de la Vendôme, with its memorable column, just opposite to her bedroom window, meant nothing to her. She had the desolating sense that nothing in the world would ever matter to her again. Nothing, as far as she, Peggy Manningtree, was concerned. Her life was over. Altruism alone gave sanction to continued existence. Hence, her present adventure. Paris might have been bustling for all the interest it afforded. Jean worked from morning to night in the Sac-Caselle of the Croix-Rouge in the Rue Vaud-Guillard. She had tried, after the establishment of her affairs, to enter, in no matter what capacity, a British-based hospital. It would be a consolation for her surrender of doggy to work for his wounded comrades. Besides, twice in her life she owed everything to the English, and the repayment of the debt was a matter of conscience. But she found that the gates of English hospitals were thronged with English girls, and she could not even speak the language. So, guided by the Paris friend with whom she lodged, she made her way to the Rue Vaud-Guillard, where, in the packing-room, she had found hard, unemotional employment. Yet the work had to be done, and it was done for France, which, after all, was dearer to her than England. And among her fellow-workers, women of all classes, she had pleasant companionship. When, one day, the old concierge, be meddled from the war of 1870, appeared to her in the packing-room, with the announcement that her dame Anglès desired to speak to her, she was at first bewildered. She knew no English ladies had never met one in her life. It took a second or two for the thoughts to flash that the visit might concern doggy. Then came conviction. In blue overall encab, she followed the concierge to the ante-room, her heart beating. At the sight of the young English woman in black, with her crepe-hat, a little white band beneath the veil, it nearly stopped altogether. Peggy advanced with outstretched hand. You are Mamoiselle Jean-Bossierre? Yes, madame. I am a cousin of Monsieur Trevor. Ah, madame! Jean pointed to the morning. You do not come to tell me he is dead? Peggy smiled. No, I hope not. Ah, Jean sighed in relief. I thought, this is for my husband, said Peggy Quartley. Jean was in great distress. Peggy smiled again. Widows dressed differently in England and France.  Could we sit down and have a little talk? Pardon, madame, c'est que je suis un peu émouillé. C'est Jean. She led the way to the bench. They sat down together, and for a feminine second or two, took stock of each other. Jean's first rebellious instinct said, I was right. In her furs and her perfect millinery and perfect shoes and perfect black silk stockings that appear below the short skirt, Peggy, blue-eyed, fine-featured, the fine product of many generations of scholarly English gentlefolk, seemed to incarnate her vague conjectures of the social atmosphere in which Doggy had his being. Her peasant blood impelled her to suspicion, to a half-grudging aberration, to self-protective jealousy. The English woman's ease of manner, in spite of her helter-skelter French, oppressed her with an angry sense of inferiority. She was also conscious of the blue overall and close-fitting cap. Yet the English woman's smile was kind, and she had lost her husband. And Peggy, looking at this girl with the dark, tragic eyes, and refined pale face and graceful gestures, in the funny instinctive British way, tried to place her socially. What's your lady? Made such a difference. This was the girl for whom Doggy had performed his deed of night errantry, the girl whom she proposed to take back to Doggy. For the moment, discounting the uniform which might have hidden a midinette or a duchess, she had nothing but the face and the gestures and the beautifully modulated voice to go upon. And between the accent of the midinette and the duchess, both being equally charming to her English ear, Peggy could not discriminate. She had, however, beautiful, capable hands, and took care of her fingernails. Jean broke the tiniest bell of embarrassed silence. I am at your disposal, madame. Peggy plunged her once into facts. It may seem strange my coming to you, but the fact is that my cousin, Monsieur Trava, is severely wounded. Mondeur, said Jean. And his friend, Mr. McPhail, who is also wounded, thinks that if you... well... Her French failed her. To carry off a delicate situation must have command of language. She could only blurt out. She met Jean's dark eyes. He is done not only march, but everything for me, madame. Jean continued.  Accompany me back to London. I had a telegram this morning to say that he had arrived at a hospital there. Then you have not seen him? Not yet. Then how, madame, do you know that he desires my presence? Peggy glanced at the girl's hands, clasped on her lap, and saw that the knuckles were white. I am sure of it. He would have written, madame. I only received one letter from him, and that was while I still lived at Freilou. He wrote many letters and telegraphed to Freilou, and received no answers. Madame! I implore you to believe what I say, but not one of those letters has ever reached me. Not one. At first Peggy was incredulous. Phineas McPhail had told her of Doggy's despair at the lack of response from Freilou, and after all Freilou had a properly constituted post-office in working order, which might be expected to forward letters. She had therefore come prepared to reproach the girl, but... Je le joue, madame, said Jean, and Peggy believed her. But I wrote to Missy McPhail, giving him my address in Paris. He lost the letter before he saw Doggy again. The name slipped out, and forgot the address. But how did you find me? I had a lot of difficulty. The British Embassy, the Prefecture of Police. Mon Dieu! Cresceur, again. Did you do all that for me? For my cousin. You called him Doggy. That is how I know him, and think of him. All right, smiled Peggy, for Doggy then. Jean's brain, for a moment or two, was in a whirl. Embassy, the Prefecture of Police. Madame, to do this you must love him very much. I loved him so much. I hope you will understand me. My French, I know, is terrible. But I loved him so much that until he came home wounded, we were fiancée. Jean drew a short breath. I felt it, madame. An English gentleman of great estate would naturally marry an English lady of his own social class. That is why, madame, I acted as I have done. Then, something of what Jean really was, became obvious to Peggy. Lady, or no lady, in the conventional British sense, Jean appealed to her, in her quiet dignity and restraint, as a type of French woman whom she had never met before. She suddenly conceived an enormous respect for Jean. Also, for Phineas McPhail, whose eulogistic character sketch she had accepted with feminine reservations, subconsciously derisive. My dear, she said, vous êtes digne de toutes d'armes anglaises. Which wasn't an elegant way of putting it in the French tongue. But Jean, with her odd smile of the lips, showed that she understood her meaning. She had served her apprenticeship in the interpretation of Anglo-Gaelic. But I wanted to tell you, Doggie and I were engaged. A family matter. Then, when he came home wounded, you know how, I found that I loved him. I found that I loved someone, Amy D'Amour, as you say, and he found the same. I loved the man whom I married. He loved you. He confessed it. We parted more affectionate friends than we had ever been. I married. He searched for you. My husband has been killed. Doggie, although wounded, is alive. That is why I am here. They were sitting in a corner of the anti-room, and before them passed a continuous stream of the busy life of the war. Civilians, officers, badged workers, elderly orders in pathetic bits of uniform that might have dated from 1870, wheeling packages in and out, groups talking of the business of the organisation. Here and there a blue-vested young lieutenant and a blue overall packer, talking it did not need God to know of what. But neither of the two women heeded this multitude. Jean said, Madame, I am profoundly moved by what you have told me.  One learns self-restraint, Madame, or one goes mad. But as you have spoken to me in your noble English frankness, I have only to confess that I love Doggie with all my heart, with all my soul. With her two clenched hands she smirk her breast, and Peggy noted it was the first gesture that she had made. I feel the infinite need, Madame, you will understand me, to care for him, to protect him. Peggy raised a beautifully loved hand. Protect him, she interrupted. Why hasn't he shown himself to be a hero? Jean lent forward and grasped the protesting hand by the wrist, and there was a wonderful light behind her eyes, and a curious vibration in her voice. It is only a petty hero, Toutfais, the little ready-made heroes, ready-made by the bondue, who have no need of a woman's protection. But it is a different thing with the great heroes who have made themselves, without the aid of a bondue, from little dogs of no account, des pétichiens du rayon de tue, to what Doggie is at the moment. The woman then takes her place. She fixes things forever. She alone can understand. Peggy gasped as at a new revelation. The terms in which this French girl expressed herself were far beyond the bounds of her philosophy. The varying aspects in which Doggie had presented himself to her in the past few months had been bewildering. Now she saw him in a fresh light, though as in a glass darkly, as reflected by Jean. Still she protested again in order to see more clearly. But what would you protect him from? From want of faith in himself. From want of faith in his destiny, madame. Once he told me he had come to France to fight for his soul. It is necessary that he should be victorious. It is necessary that the woman who loves him should make him victorious. Peggy put out her hand and touched Jean's wrist. I'm glad I didn't marry Doggie Mamoiselle, she said simply. I couldn't have done that. She paused. Well, she resumed. Would you now come with me to London? A faint smile crept into Jean's eyes. May we, madame. Doggie lay in the long, pleasant ward of the great London hospital, the upper left side of his body a mass of bandaged pain. Neck and shoulder, front and back and arm have been shattered and torn by high, explosive shell. The top of his lung have been grazed. Only the remorseless pressure at the base hospital had justified the sending of him after a week to England. Youth and the splendid constitution which Dr. Murdoch had proclaimed in the far-off days of the war's beginning, and the toughening training of the war itself carried him through. No more fighting for Doggie this side of the grave. But the grave was as far distant as it is from any young man in his twenties who avoids abnormal peril. Till to-day he had not been allowed to see visitors or to receive letters. They told him that the Dean of Dirtlebury had called, had brought flowers and fruit, and had left a card—from your aunt, Peggy, and myself. But to-day he felt wonderfully strong in spite of the unrelenting pain, and the nurse had said, I shouldn't wonder if you had some visitors this afternoon. Peggy, of course, followed the hands of his wristwatch until they marked the visiting R. And sure enough, a minute afterwards, amid the stream of men and women, chiefly women, of all grades and kinds, he caught sight of Peggy's face smiling beneath her widow's hat.  My dear old Doggie, she bent down and kissed him. Those rotten people wouldn't let me come before. I know, said Doggie. He pointed to his shoulder. I'm afraid I'm in a hell of a mess. It's lovely to see you. She unpinned the violets and thrust them towards his face. From home I've brought them for you. My God! said Doggie, burying his nose in the huge bunch. I never knew violets could smell like this. He did them down with a sigh. How's everybody? Quite fit. There was a span of silence. Then he stretched out his hand, and she gave him hers, and he gripped it tight. Poor old Peggy, dear. Oh, that's all right. She said bravely. I know you care, dear Doggie. That's enough. I've just got to stick it like the rest. She withdrew her hand off for a little squeeze. Bless you. Don't worry about me. I'm contemptibly healthy. But you—getting on splendidly—I say, Peggy, what kind of people are the Purringers who have taken Denby Hall? They're all right, I believe. He's something of the government—controller of feeding-bottles, I don't know.  I wasn't. You were. Doggie laughed. If you come here to argue with me, I shall cry, and then you'll be turned out, neck and crop. Peggy looked at him shrewdly. You seem to be going pretty strong. Never stronger in my life, lied, Doggie. Would you like to see somebody you are very fond of? Somebody I'm fond of? Uncle Edward? No, no. She waived the very reverent the dean to the Empyrean. Dear old Phineas, has he come through? I've not had time to ask whether you've heard anything about him. Yes, he's flourishing. He wrote to me. I've seen him. Praise the Lord! cried Doggie. My dear, there's no one on earth save you whom I should so much love to see as Phineas. If he's there, fetch him along. Peggy nodded and smiled mysteriously, and went away down the ward. And Doggie thought, thank God Peggy has the strength to face the world, and thank God Phineas has come through. He closed his eyes, feeling rather tired, thinking of Phineas. Of his laughs words as he passed him, stretcher-born in the trench of the devotion of the man, of his future—well, never mind his future. In all his vague post-war schemes for reorganisation of the social system, Phineas had his place. No further need for dear old Phineas to standing light green and gold outside a picture palace. He thought it out long ago, although he had never said a word to Phineas. Now he could set the poor chap's mind at rest for ever. He looked round contentedly, and saw Peggy and a companion coming down the ward together. But it was not Phineas. It was a girl in black. He raised himself, forgetful of exquisite pain, on his right elbow, and stared in a thrill of amazement. And Jean came to him, and there were no longer ghosts behind her eyes, for they shone like stars. End of Chapter Twenty-Four End of The Rough Road by William John Locke