Later on he took Bel out on to the terrace, where they paced up and down in the starlight, talking fitfully. Time was too short for all they had to say; and for that very reason they could not say one half of it. Interludes of silence increased. At last came one so prolonged that, by a mutual impulse, they came to a standstill, near a low stone bench, confronting each other and the inexorable fact. ‘Oh Mark—to-morrow!’ Bel breathed unsteadily, her dim face close to his. ‘It seems impossible.’ For answer he took hold of her, and sitting down, gathered her on to his knees. Then, amazed, he heard her whisper at his ear: ‘Darling—I’m horribly afraid. I keep feeling—I shall never get you back.’ It was spoken at last, the fear of perpetual parting that knocked at both their hearts. But the man knew that spectre must be ignored. ‘I’ll come back with any luck, my Bel,’ he said, kissing her, ‘to claim you for good, and worry your life out! I vote we marry the first leave I get.’ He passed his hand slowly down her bare arm. ‘Darling, you’re cold,’ he said. ‘There’s a dew and a half falling. Come in at once. Are we down-hearted?—No!’ The light of the hall showed her on the verge of tears. But she pulled herself together and he dismissed her with a blessing that meant more to him than to her. In the drawing-room he found Keith alone, with a solitary electric light switched on, smoking by the open window; a privilege Helen permitted him for the sake of his company. ‘Hullo! Gone—both of ’em?’ Mark asked in surprise. ‘Yes. I ordered them off. They looked strained and tired. Couldn’t read. Couldn’t talk. Your mother has some letters to write, I think. She left word—would you look in?’ ‘Bless her, she takes things beastly hard.’ ‘She does,’ Keith assented briefly; and Mark proceeded to fill his pipe. During the process Keith watched him, appraising his straight, clean manhood and cursing the devilish nature of modern war. Presently, when Mark had finished with his pipe, he spoke. ‘Keith, old chap, on the strength of peculiar circumstances and the general uncertainty of things, I’m going to make an infernally impertinent remark. To begin with, mother’s most distractingly on my mind. I’ve fixed up most things, with a view to—possible contingencies. But I don’t seem able to fix up her. If I’m knocked out—she’s simply done for. Not even this precious work of hers for consolation. It all goes to Uncle Everard, who’ll make an end of our colony straight away. She’ll lose everything at a stroke, except Inveraig. And she—alone there⸺!’ He set his teeth hard, and Keith passed a long thin hand across his eyes. ‘That’s the tragedy of it,’ he said, adding, with forced lightness. ‘Where does the impertinence come in?’ ‘It’s jolly well coming in now. Don’t bite my head off. Truth is, I’m not stone blind; and just lately—I’ve been wondering ... why the deuce don’t you make a match of it? You and Mums!’