No sound in all the range of sounds whereby man can express emotion was possible to express this emotion that now surcharged him. This was no pain of man's devising. This was a special and a private agony of the gods reserved for victims approved for very nice and exquisite experiment. He felt himself squeezed right down beneath a pressure squeezing to his vitals; and there was squeezed out of him just a whimper. He walked across to the fireplace; and on the high mantle-shelf laid his arms and bowed his forehead to the marble. Twyning was brokenly saying, "It's good of you to come, Sabre. I feel it. After that business. I'm sorry about it, Sabre. I feel your goodness coming to me like this. But you know, you always knew, what my boy was to me. My Harold. My Harold. Such a good boy, Sabre. Such a good, Christian boy. And now he's gone, he's gone. Never to see him again. My boy. My son. My son!" Oh, dreadful! And he went on, distraught and pitiable. "My boy. My Harold. Such a good boy, Sabre. Such a perfect boy. My Harold!" The letter was crumpled in Sabre's right hand. He was constricting it in his hand and knocking his clenched knuckles on the marble. "My boy. My dear, good boy. Oh, Sabre, Sabre!" He dropped his right arm and swung it by his side; to and fro; over the fender--over the fire; over the hearth--over the flames. "My Harold. Never to see his face again! My Harold." He stopped his swinging arm, holding his hand above the flames. "He that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God and God in him; for God is love." He opened his fingers, and the crumpled letter fell and was consumed. He pushed himself up from the mantlepiece and turned and went over to Twyning and stood over him again. He patted Twyning's heaving shoulders. "There, there, Twyning. Bad luck. Bad luck. Hard. Hard. Bear up, Twyning. Soldier's death.... Finest death.... Died for his country.... Fine boy.... Soldier's death.... Bad luck. Bad luck, Twyning...." Twyning, inarticulate, pushed up his hand and felt for Sabre's hand and clutched it and squeezed it convulsively. Sabre said again, "There, there, Twyning. Hard. Hard. Fine death.... Brave boy...." He disengaged his hand and turned and walked very slowly from the room. He went along the passage, past Mr. Fortune's door towards that which had been his own, still walking very slowly and with his hand against the wall to steady himself. He felt deathly ill.... He went into his own room, unentered by him for many months, now his own room no more, and dropped heavily into the familiar chair at the familiar desk. He put his arms out along the desk and laid his head upon them. Oh, cumulative touch! He began to be shaken with onsets of emotion, as with sobs. Oh, cumulative touch! The communicating door opened and Mr. Fortune appeared. He stared at Sabre in astounded indignation. "Sabre! You here! I must say--I must admit--"