She told him; and while she read out snatches of her letter, Mark—watching her with new eyes—wondered, had she the least inkling? Would a word from him be of any service to Keith? Curiosity impelled him to talk of the Boulogne trip, to enlarge on his confidence in Keith, and even to touch on the unconventional character of the whole plan. Neither in look nor tone could he detect a glimmer of after-thought or shadow of self-consciousness. The causes of her satisfaction were clear as daylight: longing to be in the same country as himself, candid pleasure in Keith’s and Sheila’s company, and her innate love of getting off the beaten track. ‘It’s just one of the many beautiful things that a genuine, understanding friendship makes possible,’ she concluded, stamping and sealing her letter: and Mark began to feel rather sorry for Keith. But he wisely refrained from any hint of his own knowledge. It would probably do no good and would certainly spoil her pleasure in going. Instead, he commandeered her writing-board, an act of tyranny that would normally have involved a fight. Her unnatural meekness hurt him more sharply than any words of love, could she have brought herself to speak them. When he came back to the bed, she indicated a little pile of Active Service Compendiums and a pocket Red-letter Testament on the table beside her. She had already given him his wrist-watch and a silver flask. ‘That _from_ me,’ she said, touching the Book, ‘and those _for_ me. I shall be hungry for news, remember, and out of touch with Bel, who will get it all.’ ‘Not quite all—faithless and unbelieving!’ he answered, echoing her lightness. Then he added with decision: ‘You’re not coming up to town, Mums; not even to the station—understand? It’ll be bad enough having Bel. But she’s cooler all through. No matter how brave you are, I can always feel you quivering inside. And I couldn’t stand it. Nor could you.’ She shook her head. ‘It was only—a temptation. Not to miss....’ A spasm crossed her face, and he went down on his knees beside her. ‘Darling, if we are going to make fools of ourselves,’ he said huskily, ‘I’d better be off. It’s near midnight. Time you were asleep.’ No answer; and he spoke still lower. ‘Give me your blessing, Mums—like when I went to school.’ Still without speaking, she laid her hands on his bowed head; and from his heart he echoed her passionate silent plea for his safe return. Then he stood up and kissed her good-night. * * * * * For sheer misery and discomfort nothing could exceed the actual hour or two before departure. Bel could be with him in his room while he ‘completed his mobilisation.’ The rest could only hang about aimlessly, making futile talk or inventing futile occupations to keep thought at bay. In the background several maids and a grey-haired butler hovered fitfully; and Bobs, a picture of abject misery, lay awaiting his master at the foot of the stairs.