ne found himself
looking through the bars of the back of the chair at something which
rolled and sogged in the water. And then it half turned, and he saw it
was a woman. Some of her hair, sodden and matted, came through the
openings of his chair, and he watched the floating tendrils
uncomprehendingly for a while. Dead . . . of course, she was dead . . .
with the water splashing ceaselessly over her face. . . . At peace; she
had chucked her hand in--given up the useless struggle.

What chance was there anyway of a boat coming in time? What a fool he
was to go on, when he felt so tired and so cold? . . . That woman did
not mind--the one lying there in the water so close to him. She was
perfectly happy . . . while he was numb and exhausted. Why not just lie
on the water and go to sleep? . . . He would keep the woman company, and
he would be happy just like her, instead of having to force his frozen
hands to hold that cursed slippery wood. . . .

And Joan would be happy, because she would have saved Blandford; and
Baxter, damn him, he would be happy; and the whole blessed outfit would
be happy as well as him when he had just dropped on to sleep. . . .

He would never have done as a husband for Margaret; the idea was
ridiculous. Imagine sitting down and writing a book, while she took the
pennies at the door--or did he have to take the pennies? Anyway, this
settled the matter, and saved him the trouble of explanation. He loathed
explanations; all he wanted was peace and quiet and rest. . . .

What a farce it all was; man thinking he could struggle against science.
Science ruled the universe--aeroplanes, gas, torpedoes. And it served
men right for inventing them; they should have been more careful. The
smile on the dead German airman's face, as he lay on the ground near
Poperinghe, floated before him, and he nodded his head portentously.

"You're right, old bean," he croaked. "The man I want to meet is the
fool who doesn't think it's funny . . . ."

And then Vane crossed the Valley of the Shadow, as far as a man may cross
and yet return. Strange figures crowded around him hemming him in on
every side. The Boche whose brains he had blown out near Arras was there
with his shattered skull, holding out a hand of greeting--and Baxter,
grinning sardonically. Margaret--with a wealth of pity and love shining
on her face, and Joan with her grey eyes faintly mocking . . . . And his
tailor with the wart on his nos