For the first week of the three
he spent in England he hardly realised--he was too excited. He was
going out; that was all that mattered; until one morning his eyes were
opened to his personal case. It is easy to see things where others are
concerned; but in one's own case. . . .

He was at home on three days' leave, and the girl was there too.

"Good Lord!" he remarked at breakfast; "Jerry Thornton gone too." His
eye was running down the casualty list. "Whole battalion must have
taken it in the neck--five officers killed, fourteen wounded. I wish
to heaven----" He looked up, and the words died away on his lips.

"I didn't realise what war meant to women." His remarks at the Gare de
Lyon hit him like a blow. For he had seen the look in the girl's eyes;
he had seen the look in his mother's. Blotted out at once, it is true;
effaced the instant they had realised he was watching them; but--too
late. He had seen.

"Was that Major Thornton, dear?" His mother was speaking. "The one
who shot so well?" Her voice was casual; her acting superb. And God!
how they can act--these women of ours.

For a moment something stuck in his throat. He saw just such another
breakfast room, with a woman staring with dull eyes at the laconic name
in the paper: a name which so baldly confirmed the wire she had had
three days before. Stunned, still dazed by the shock, she sat
silently, apathetically; as yet she could hardly feel the blow which
Fate had dealt her. In time perhaps; just now--well, it couldn't be;
there must be some mistake. Other men had died--true; but--not hers.
He was different; there must be some mistake. . . .

For each and every name in that list Clive Draycott of a sudden
realised the same thing was occurring. And then he saw it--personally;
he felt it--personally; he realised that it concerned him--personally.
Those other women had looked, just as had his mother and the girl, a
few weeks ago. Those other women had laughed and joked and asked
casual questions to cover their true feelings, just the same. Those
other women had been through it all and---- "We only see them before
we go--never after." In the theatre, at the restaurant, playing the
fool with us, dancing with us--then we see them; afterwards--when the
train has gone and we are looking out of the window or talking with the
man opposite, then, we do not see them. And it is just as well. "Mon
Dieu! Quelle vache de guerre." . . .

Som