o the two words, "Victoria Cross". The being, having lived his
glorious moments, withdrew. The Funeral March of Chopin tramped with
its excruciating dragging tread across the ruins of the soul. And
finally the cathedral was startled by the sudden trumpets of the Last
Post, and the ceremony ended.

"Come and have lunch with me," said the young red-hatted officer next
to G.J. "I haven't got to be back till two-thirty, and I want to talk
music for a change. Do you know I'm putting in ninety hours a week at
the W.O.?"

"Can't," G.J. replied, with an affectation of jauntiness. "I'm engaged
for lunch. Sorry."

"Who you lunching with?"

"Mrs. Smith."

The Staff officer exclaimed aghast:

"Conception?"

"Yes. Why, dear heart?"

"My dear chap. You don't know. Carlos Smith's been killed. _She_
doesn't know yet. I only heard by chance. News came through just as I
left. Nobody knows except a chap or two in Casualties. They won't be
sending out to-day's wires until two or three o'clock."

G.J., terrified and at a loss, murmured:

"What am I to do, then?"

"You know her extremely well, don't you? You ought to go and prepare
her."

"But how can I prepare her?"

"I don't know. How do people prepare people?... Poor thing!"

G.J. fought against the incredible fact of death.

"But he only went out six days ago! They haven't been married three
weeks."

The central hardness of the other disclosed itself as he said:

"What's that got to do with it? What does it matter if he went out six
days ago or six weeks ago? He's killed."

"Well--"

"Of course you must go. Indicate a rumour. Tell her it's probably
false, but you thought you owed it to her to warn her. Only for God's
sake don't mention me. We're not supposed to say anything, you know."

G.J. seemed to see his mission, and it challenged him.

Chapter 11

THE TELEGRAM

As soon as G.J. had been let into the abode by Concepcion's venerable
parlour-maid, the voice of Concepcion came down to him from above:

"G.J., who is your oldest and dearest friend?"

He replied, marvellously schooling his voice to a similar tone of
cheerful abruptness:

"Difficult to say, off-hand."

"Not at all. It's your beard."

That was her greeting to him. He knew she was recalling an old
declined suggestion of hers that he should part with his beard. The
parlour-maid practised an admirable deafness, faithfully to confirm
Concepcion, who always presumed deafness in all