He took her arm as they crossed the parade-ground. Their hands touched; clasped; released each other. In the gloom and odorous warmth of his stall, the rugged bay stamped restlessly on the tiled floor, flirted with his stable head-collar. “Queen Bess,” Peter’s second charger, eyed them imperturbably from the loose-box railings. Peter gentled the bay; caressing the soft muzzle with his open hand. “Some horse, my Little William, isn’t he?” “Rather.” Now she had herself well in hand. They left the stables; wandered arm-in-arm across the gun-park; past Divisional Office, shuttered and silent; till they stood in darkness under pine trees. “Pat, old thing,” he said suddenly, “you’re not nervous about my going out, are you?” “No,” she lied, “not a bit. Only—it will be rather dull without you.” She could feel the heart inside her thumping—thumping. . . . “I’m sorry about the money, Pat. But we’ll make another fortune when the war’s over.” “Of course, dear.” Oh, but this was Hell—Hell unutterable. “And, Pat”—-he caught her hand, drew her towards him—“we’ve been jolly good pals, haven’t we?” “Yes, dear,” she whispered, resting for a second in his arms. “You ought to be in bed, you know, Pat. It’s very late.” “Ought I?” “Yes.” He bent down; kissed her, quietly, tenderly, on the forehead, then on the lips. She steeled herself to give no cry. “Good-bye,” she whispered. “And, boy, boy, for Heaven’s sake take care of yourself.” “Trust me!” said our Mr. Jameson. . . . And so they parted. PART THIRTEEN PREPARE FOR ACTION! § 1 After a fortnight’s inactivity at the Base, the Southdown Artillery, split into half Brigades for war-training, marched three days till they came by Aire and Lambres and Mazinghem, and long-streeted Lilliers and the railway-tangles of Chocques to their last rest-billets behind that section of the firing-line which lay between the Double Crassier, the spider-tower Pylons of Loos, and the fall pit-shaft buildings of Fosse Eight. “Well,” said Torrington, “what do you think of it so far, P.J.?” The three blond women of La Jaudrie farm had spread mattresses on the stone floor of the churn-room; and on these, curled up in their valises, candle guttering between them, the two were lying. “Can’t quite make up my mind,” reflected Peter. “It all seems so extraordinarily casual. We’ve had no post, our rations have been twenty-four hours late all the way up, our own staff threw most of the officers’ valises off the G.S. waggons the day we started. . . .” “Oh, that!” Torrington laughed. “You’ll get used to the Staff when you’ve been out a bit longer, P.J. Mustn’t take ’em too seriously you know. These Seventh Division birds don’t seem too bad.” “No,” admitted our Mr. Jameson. “I must say that Staff Captain man knows his job. I’ve got quite a decent shanty for H.Q.” “That little house behind the battery-positions?” “Yes.”