Her eyes ran over the well-known lines, and she sat down at the piano
and sang it through. She sang it as she had never sung before; she
sang it as she would never sing it again. For the last note had barely
died away, throbbing into silence, when Joan took the score in her
hands and tore it across. She tore the pages again, and then she
carried the pieces across and threw them into the fire. It was while
she was pressing down the remnants with a poker that Mrs. Sutton came
into the room and glanced at her in mild surprise.

"It's an old song," said Joan with a clear, ringing laugh. "One I
shall never sing again. I'm tired of it. . . ."

And the god in charge paused for a moment, and wondered if it was worth
while. . . .

CHAPTER XVII

"My hat!" remarked the Adjutant as Vane reported his return to the depot.
"Can this thing be true? Giving up leave. . . ."

Vane grinned, and seated himself on the edge of the table.

"'There are more things, Horatio,'" he quoted genially.

"For the love of Pete--not that hoary motto," groaned the other. "Want a
job of work?"

"My hat!" laughed Vane. "Can this thing be true? Work at the depot?"

"Try my job," grunted Vallance. "Of all the bandy-legged crowd of C3
perishers I've ever seen, this crowd fills the bill. . . . Why one damn
fellow who's helping in the cook-house--peeling potatoes--says it gives
him pains in the stummick. . . . Work too hard. . . . And in civil life
he was outside porter in a goods yard." He relapsed into gloomy silence.

"What about this job?" prompted Vane.

The Adjutant lit a cigarette. "I can easily send over a subaltern, if
you like," he said; "but you might find it a good trip. It's a draft for
the sixth battalion in Ireland; you'll have to cross and hand 'em over in
Dublin."

Vane thought for a moment and then nodded.

"I'd like it," he said. "I rather want something to do at the
moment. . . ."

"Right, old boy. Start to-morrow. Come round about ten, and I'll give
you the papers."

Vane saluted and left the orderly room. The prospect of the trip pleased
him; as he had said, at the moment he wanted something to do. Though it
was only the day before that he had left her, the temptation to go back
to Joan--or at any rate write to her--was growing in strength. Already
he was cursing himself as a fool for having acted as he had; and yet he
knew that he had done right. It had to be left for her to decide. . . .