ere's no beauty in it."

"Rupert, you're wrong," he answered, "and you'll see it when you are
less unhappy." He paused. "Doe--Edgar used to worry himself because
he thought that any really good thing that he did was spoiled by a
desire for glory. He often said that he wanted to do a really
perfect thing. And, Rupert, this afternoon he told me that, when he
went forward to put out that gun, he felt quite alone. He seemed
surrounded with smoke and flying dust. And he thought he would do
one big deed unseen.... He did his perfect thing at the last."

"There's no beauty," I repeated dully.

"Rupert, Edgar is dead.... And there's only one unbeautiful thing
about his death, and that is the way his friend is taking it."

Monty stopped, and both of us watched the sun go down behind Imbros.
It was throwing out golden rays like the spokes of a wheel. These
rays caught the flaky clouds above Samothrace, and just pencilled
their outline with a tiny rim of gold and fire. And the hills of
Imbros, as always in the AEgean Sea, turned purple.

"There's no beauty in death and burial and corruption," I said.

"Yes, there is, even in them. There's beauty in thinking that the
same material which goes to make these earthly hills and that still
water should have been shaped into a graceful body, and lit with the
divine spark which was Edgar Doe. There's beauty in thinking that,
when the unconquerable spark has escaped away, the material is
returned to the earth, where it urges its life, also an
unconquerable thing, into grass and flowers. It's harmonious--it's
beautiful."

This time I forbore to repeat my obstinate denial.

"And your friendship is a more beautiful whole, as things are. Had
there been no war, you'd have left school and gone your different
roads, till each lost trace of the other. It's always the same. But,
as it is, the war has held you in a deepening intimacy till--till
the end. It's--it's perfect."

"It'll be more perfect," I answered, in a low, hollow voice, "if the
war ends us both. Perhaps it will. There is time yet."

At so bitter a sentence Monty gave me a look, and broke through all
barriers with a single generous remark.

"Rupert, old chap, the loss of Edgar leaves _me_ numb with pain, but
I know I'm not suffering like you."

A dry sob tore up my frame.

"Oh, I don't know what I feel," I gulped, "or what I've said. I
think I've been a self-centred cad. I'm--I'm sorry."

Monty muttered something gentl