Eleven-thirty p. m.! Already, D and C Batteries, and the three clumsy sections of Billy Williams’ Ammunition Column were away into the jingling darkness.

Peter had come home to dinner; departed again. Upstairs at the villa, Patricia could hear Alice sobbing gently, and Stark’s deep voice, the parade-rasp clean gone out of it, “Don’t cry, sweetheart. For God’s sake, don’t cry.” ...

“I mustn’t cry for Peter. Not until he’s gone,” thought Patricia. She tip-toed upstairs; slipped into a cloak; stole out of the house.

The night had cleared; stars twinkled through the fir-trees as she made her way down the sandy road. From the General’s house and the big Mess Hut, lights streaked thinly; she could hear men’s voices. A soldier was singing, far off, up the hillside towards Blackdown. She came to the sentry-box at the gate; passed unchallenged.

In the gun-park electric torches glowed, went out again. She was aware of hooves stamping, chains jingling, men moving everywhere. A hurricane-lamp, hanging at a stable-doorway, showed up the shadows of soldiers, standing to shadowy horses.

She heard Torrington’s voice, “B Battery. Prepare to mount. Mount!”

Boots clapped on gravel; shadows swung to saddles; a mare neighed.

“Column of Route from the right. Walk—March! Right Incline. Steady that leading team.”

They came towards her, lumbering through the gloom; filed by.

“That you, Mrs. P.J.?” called the last horseman.

“Yes, Captain Torrington.”

“Good luck.”

“And good luck to you all.” They were by now. She heard a voice, “Mind that water-cart”; heard the curse of a driver as wheel shaved gate-post. Dust rolled back; choked her....

“Dear God,” she thought, “can I stick it?”

Another voice hailed her. “That you, Mrs. P.J.? I suspected as much. Come to bid the hero Adjutant farewell?” It was Purves—and she hated him. “He’s in the Orderly Room. By that light.”

“Thank you, Mr. Purves.”

She walked very quietly to the gleaming doorway; climbed the two steps; looked in.

“Hello, old thing,” said Peter. He had just opened a little packet of revolver cartridges; was slipping them into the pouch of the laden Sam Browne spread out on the table under the acetylene lamp.

“Bet you a fiver I never fire any of these in anger.” He picked up one of the brass cylinders; stretched it out to her. “Did you see B’s first section go off? Looked well, didn’t they?”

“Yes, awfully well.” She found voice somehow.

“Come and have a look at Little Willie. I’ve got nothing to do for another hour....”

He took her arm as they crossed the parade-ground. Their hands touched; clasped; released each other. In the gloom and odorous warmth of his stall, the rugged bay stamped restlessly on the tiled floor, flirted with his stable head-collar. “Queen Bess,” Peter’s second charger, eyed them imperturbably from the loose-box railings. Peter gentled the bay; caressing the soft muzzle with his open hand.

“Some horse, my Little William, isn’t he?”

“Rather.” Now she had herself well in hand.

They left the stables; wandered arm-in-arm across the gun-park; past Divisional Office, shuttered and silent; till they stood in darkness under pine trees.

“Pat, old thing,” he said suddenly, “you’re not nervous about my going out, are you?”

“No,” she lied, “not a bit. Only—it will be rather dull without you.” She could feel the heart inside her thumping—thumping. ...

“I’m sorry about the money, Pat. But we’ll make another fortune when the war’s over.”

“Of course, dear.” Oh, but this was Hell—Hell unutterable.

“And, Pat”—-he caught her hand, drew her towards him—“we’ve been jolly good pals, haven’t we?”

“Yes, dear,” she whispered, resting for a second in his arms.

“You ought to be in bed, you know, Pat. It’s very late.”

“Ought I?”

“Yes.” He bent down; kissed her, quietly, tenderly, on the forehead, then on the lips. She steeled herself to give no cry.

“Good-bye,” she whispered. “And, boy, boy, for Heaven’s sake take care of yourself.”

“Trust me!” said our Mr. Jameson....

And so they parted.