His hands dropped again, between impatience and relief. Laura rose hastily. It was pitiful to watch Martha ousting Mary in her face. She was the old Laura, the wistful, anxious Laura again, full of words and plannings and solicitudes. “You must go. I had forgotten. I had forgotten the war. It isn’t the time. You mustn’t lose your train, Justin. Will you go quickly to your mother? Your bag—your mackintosh—I’ll see to your things. I’m coming with you. I want to come with you. Your umbrella——Of course! Soldiers don’t have umbrellas.” She followed him into the hall, and while he ran upstairs, went out on to the steps where old Robert and the dog-cart awaited him. She spoke quickly. “You can get down, Robert. I am driving Mr. Justin.” Robert, with a tall fighting son of his own, was tenacious of his crack with the young master. He expostulated respectfully. There had never been so fresh a mare as the mare between the shafts of the dog-cart. But Miss Laura—courteous, thoughtful Miss Laura—cut inexorably through his suggestions. “I’m driving Mr. Justin, Robert. He won’t be a moment.” She took the reins from his unwilling hand and springing up, settled herself quickly in his rightful place. He might have been a chauffeur, a hired chauffeur, from her tone. He retired to the back seat, outraged. They said nothing at all during their short drive. Laura’s eyes, and for all Justin knew her thoughts, were on the mare’s ears, a-prick for an excuse to shy. And his thoughts had travelled ahead of him. He was wondering where he should find his men, and how.... In a way he shouldn’t be sorry to get back.... One never knew what might happen when one left the show to other people.... Yet how he hated leaving it all ... his mother ... and the quiet ... and his own den ... and Laura.... As for Laura—he was glad—he was sorry—that their talk had broken where it had.... But Laura was right.... It wasn’t the time.... He had seen, as in a crystal, a blurred glimpse of what the future might hold for him—Fair Haven or Fata Morgana—but which he could not tell ... he had not time to tell.... Fair Haven ... his home—his wife—his children, his own children—a slip of a daughter, maybe—a fierce, rain-drenched imp with eyes like diamonds—with eyes like Laura’s.... Fair Haven? Fata Morgana? How was he to know? Good Lord, how was he to know?... And then, resentfully——Why couldn’t Laura—no, that wasn’t fair—she wasn’t that sort—but why couldn’t Life leave him alone? He was doing his job—he was fighting. Why couldn’t Life leave it at that?... Life, oblivious of wars and peaces, sitting like a spider in her great web, spinning entanglements.... But he would not be involved in her cobwebbery of commingling lives.... Why shouldn’t he be on his own?... _Flower o’ the peach, Death for us all, and his own life for each!_