Mary said: ‘All my life I’ve been waiting for something.’ ‘What was it, my dear?’ Stephen asked her gently. And Mary answered: ‘I’ve been waiting for you, and it’s seemed such a dreadful long time, Stephen.’ The barely healed wound across Stephen’s cheek flushed darkly, for what could she find to answer? ‘For me?’ she stammered. Mary nodded gravely: ‘Yes, for you. I’ve always been waiting for you; and after the war you’ll send me away.’ Then she suddenly caught hold of Stephen’s sleeve: ‘Let me come with you—don’t send me away, I want to be near you. . . . I can’t explain . . . but I only want to be near you, Stephen. Stephen—say you won’t send me away. . . .’ Stephen’s hand closed over the Croix de Guerre, but the metal of valour felt cold to her fingers; dead and cold it felt at that moment, as the courage that had set it upon her breast. She stared straight ahead of her into the sunset, trembling because of what she would answer. Then she said very slowly: ‘After the war—no, I won’t send you away from me, Mary.’ CHAPTER 37 1 The most stupendous and heart-breaking folly of our times drew towards its abrupt conclusion. By November the Unit was stationed at St. Quentin in a little hotel, which although very humble, seemed like paradise after the dug-outs. A morning came when a handful of the members were together in the coffee-room, huddled round a fire that was principally composed of damp brushwood. At one moment the guns could be heard distinctly, the next, something almost unnatural had happened—there was silence, as though death had turned on himself, smiting his own power of destruction. No one spoke, they just sat and stared at each other with faces entirely devoid of emotion; their faces looked blank, like so many masks from which had been sponged every trace of expression—and they waited—listening to that silence. The door opened and in walked an untidy Poilu; his manner was casual, his voice apathetic: ‘Eh bien, mesdames, c’est l’Armistice.’ But his shining brown eyes were not at all apathetic. ‘Oui, c’est l’Armistice,’ he repeated coolly; then he shrugged, as a man might do who would say: ‘What is all this to me?’ After which he grinned broadly in spite of himself, he was still very young, and turning on his heel he departed. Stephen said: ‘So it’s over,’ and she looked at Mary, who had jumped up, and was looking in her turn at Stephen. Mary said: ‘This means . . .’ but she stopped abruptly. Bless said: ‘Got a match, anyone? Oh thanks!’ And she groped for her white metal cigarette case. Howard said: ‘Well, the first thing _I’m_ going to do is to get my hair properly shampooed in Paris.’ Thurloe laughed shrilly, then she started to whistle, kicking the recalcitrant fire as she did so.