In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the Army. Having completed my studies there, I was duly attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as assistant surgeon. The regiment was stationed in India at the time, and before I could join it, the second Afghan war had broken out. On landing at Bombay, I learned that my corps had advanced through the passes, and was already deep in the enemy’s country. I followed, however, with many other officers who were in the same situation as myself, and succeeded in reaching Candahar in safety, where I found my regiment, and at once entered upon my new duties.

The campaign brought honours and promotion to many, but for me it had nothing but misfortune and disaster. I was removed from my brigade and attached to the Berkshires, with whom I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. I I should have fallen into the hands of the murderous Ghazis had it not been for the devotion and courage shown by Murray, my orderly, who threw me across a packhorse, and succeeded in bringing me safely to the British lines.

Worn with pain, and weak from the prolonged hardships which I had undergone, I was removed, with a great train of wounded sufferers, to the base hospital at Peshawar. Here I rallied, and had already improved so far as to be able to walk about the wards, and even to bask a little upon the veranda when I was struck down by enteric fever, that curse of our Indian possessions. For months my life was despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should be lost in sending me back to England. I was despatched accordingly, in the troopship Orontes, and landed a month later on Portsmouth jetty, with my health irretrievably ruined, but with permission from a paternal government to spend the next nine months in attempting to improve it.

I had neither kith nor kin in England, and was therefore as free as air — or as free as an income of eleven shillings and sixpence a day will permit a man to be. Under such circumstances I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There I stayed for some time at a private hotel in the Strand, leading a comfortless, meaningless existence, and spending such money as I had, considerably more freely than I ought. So alarming did the state of my finances become, that I soon realized that I must either leave the metropolis and rusticate somewhere in the country, or that I must make a complete alteration in my style of living. Choosing the latter alternative, I began by making up my mind to leave the hotel, and take up my quarters in some less pretentious and less expensive domicile.

‘No,’ said Birkin.

‘No? I didn’t know anything of this sort was on foot—’ Brangwen smiled awkwardly.

Birkin looked back at him, and said to himself: ‘I wonder why it should be “on foot”!’ Aloud he said:

‘No, it’s perhaps rather sudden.’ At which, thinking of his relationship with Ursula, he added—‘but I don’t know—’

‘Quite sudden, is it? Oh!’ said Brangwen, rather baffled and annoyed.

‘In one way,’ replied Birkin, ‘—not in another.’

There was a moment’s pause, after which Brangwen said:

‘Well, she pleases herself—’

‘Oh yes!’ said Birkin, calmly.

A vibration came into Brangwen’s strong voice, as he replied:

‘Though I shouldn’t want her to be in too big a hurry, either. It’s no good looking round afterwards, when it’s too late.’

‘Oh, it need never be too late,’ said Birkin, ‘as far as that goes.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked the father.

‘If one repents being married, the marriage is at an end,’ said Birkin.

‘You think so?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ay, well that may be your way of looking at it.’

Birkin, in silence, thought to himself: ‘So it may. As for YOUR way of looking at it, William Brangwen, it needs a little explaining.’

‘I suppose,’ said Brangwen, ‘you know what sort of people we are? What sort of a bringing–up she’s had?’

‘“She”,’ thought Birkin to himself, remembering his childhood’s corrections, ‘is the cat’s mother.’

‘Do I know what sort of a bringing–up she’s had?’ he said aloud.

He seemed to annoy Brangwen intentionally.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘she’s had everything that’s right for a girl to have—as far as possible, as far as we could give it her.’

‘I’m sure she has,’ said Birkin, which caused a perilous full–stop. The father was becoming exasperated. There was something naturally irritant to him in Birkin’s mere presence.

‘And I don’t want to see her going back on it all,’ he said, in a clanging voice.

‘Why?’ said Birkin.

This monosyllable exploded in Brangwen’s brain like a shot.

‘Why! I don’t believe in your new–fangled ways and new–fangled ideas—in and out like a frog in a gallipot. It would never do for me.’

Birkin watched him with steady emotionless eyes. The radical antagnoism in the two men was rousing.

‘Yes, but are my ways and ideas new–fangled?’ asked Birkin.

‘Are they?’ Brangwen caught himself up. ‘I’m not speaking of you in particular,’ he said. ‘What I mean is that my children have been brought up to think and do according to the religion I was brought up in myself, and I don’t want to see them going away from THAT.’