Stephen.’ ‘But I ask this for my sake, I’m worried about her—even if I weren’t going away, I couldn’t go back now and live at Morton—our living together would make us remember.’ ‘I remember too, Stephen, and what I remember is hard to forgive. It’s hard to forgive an injury done to some one one loves. . . .’ Puddle’s face, very white, very stern—strange to hear such words as these on the kind lips of Puddle. ‘I know, I know, but she’s terribly alone, and I can’t forget that my father loved her.’ A long silence, and then: ‘I’ve never yet failed you—and you’re right—I must go to Morton.’ Stephen’s thoughts stopped abruptly. Some one had come in and was stumping down the room in squeaky trench boots. It was Blakeney holding the time-sheet in her hand—funny old monosyllabic Blakeney, with her curly white hair cropped as close as an Uhlan’s, and her face that suggested a sensitive monkey. ‘Service, Gordon; wake the kid! Howard—Thurloe—ready?’ They got up and hustled into their trench coats, found their gas masks and finally put on their helmets. Then Stephen shook Mary Llewellyn very gently: ‘It’s time.’ Mary opened her clear, grey eyes: ‘Who? What?’ she stammered. ‘It’s time. Get up, Mary.’ The girl staggered to her feet, still stupid with fatigue. Through the cracks in the shutters the dawn showed faintly. 2 The grey of a bitter, starved-looking morning. The town like a mortally wounded creature, torn by shells, gashed open by bombs. Dead streets—streets of death—death in streets and their houses; yet people still able to sleep and still sleeping. ‘Stephen.’ ‘Yes, Mary?’ ‘How far is the Poste?’ ‘I think about thirty kilometres; why?’ ‘Oh, nothing—I only wondered.’ The long stretch of an open country road. On either side of the road wire netting hung with pieces of crudely painted rag—a camouflage this to represent leaves. A road bordered by rag leaves on tall wire hedges. Every few yards or so a deep shell-hole. ‘Are they following, Mary? Is Howard all right?’ The girl glanced back: ‘Yes, it’s all right, she’s coming.’ They drove on in silence for a couple of miles. The morning was terribly cold; Mary shivered. ‘What’s that?’ It was rather a foolish question for she knew what it was, knew only too well! ‘They’re at it again,’ Stephen muttered. A shell burst in a paddock, uprooting some trees. ‘All right, Mary?’ ‘Yes—look out! We’re coming to a crater!’ They skimmed it by less than an inch and dashed on, Mary suddenly moving nearer to Stephen. ‘Don’t joggle my arm, for the Lord’s sake, child!’ ‘Did I? I’m sorry.’ ‘Yes—don’t do it again,’ and once more they drove forward in silence. Farther down the road they were blocked by a farm cart: ‘Militaires! Militaires! Militaires!’ Stephen shouted. Rather languidly the farmer got down and went to the heads of his thin, stumbling horses. ‘Il faut vivre,’ he explained, as he pointed to the cart, which appeared to be full of potatoes.