By a natural impulse her thought turned to Mrs Conolly, who alone possessed both will and power to satisfy her need. To speak of her own trouble was a thing outside the pale of possibility. Death itself were preferable. But to consult her friend as to what would really be best for Evelyn was quite another matter. She would go and see Mrs Conolly before breakfast and be ruled by her unfailing wisdom. Having arrived at one practical decision, her mind grew calmer. She went back to her room, lowered the "chick" and knelt for a long while beside her bed--a white, gracious figure, half-veiled by a dusky curtain of hair. Habit woke her before seven; and she dressed briskly, heartened by a sense of something definite to be done. A sound of many feet and hushed voices told her that Wyndham and the Pioneer officers had arrived. Chaplains were rare on the Border in those days; and Wyndham was to read the service, as he did on most occasions, Sundays included. When Honor came out into the hall she found the chick rolled up and the verandah a blaze of full-dress uniforms. No man plays out his last act with more of pomp and circumstance than a soldier; and there is a singular fitness in this emphasis on the dignity rather than the tragedy of death. The girl remained standing afar off, watching the scene, whose brilliance was heightened by an untempered April sun. A group of officers, moving aside, revealed two scarlet rows of Pioneers; and beyond them Paul's squadron, striking a deeper note of blue and gold. The band was drawn up ready to start. Slanting rays flashed cheerfully from the brass of trumpets, cornets, bassoons; from the silver fittings of flutes; from the gold on scarlet tunics. And in the midst of this ordered brilliance stood the gun-carriage, grey and austere, its human burden hidden under the folds of the English flag. Behind the gun-carriage the Boy's charger waited, with an air of uncomplaining weariness, the boots hanging reversed over the empty saddle. With an aching lump in her throat Honor turned away. At that moment the shuddering vibrations of muffled drums ushered in the "Dead March" and each note fell on her heart like a blow. In passing the study door she paused irresolute, battling with that refractory heart of hers, which refused to sit quiet in its chains. It argued now that, after all, she was his nurse; she had every right to go in and see that all was well with him. But conscience and the hammering of her pulses warned her that the greater right was--to refrain; and straightening herself briskly, she went out through the back verandah to Mrs Conolly's bungalow. She had not been gone twenty minutes when Evelyn crept into the study, so softly that her husband was not aware of her presence till her fingers rested upon his hand. He started, and took hold of them. "That you?" he said gently. "Good-morning." There was no life in his tone; and its apathy--so incredible a quality in him--gave her courage.