Her door was open, she stood anxiously waiting as he came downstairs at last. She had put on her wrapper, he noticed with a twinge. “Ruth’s bed had a blow-out,” he said. “At least I thought _she_ was safe when she’s between the sheets.” He felt that he ought to want to laugh, but he had no desire to. I suppose it’s because I’ve got no sense of humour. “Mr. Martin seems the only one who knows that night is meant to forget things in. Well, let him sleep. He’ll be on his way early in the morning.” She did not answer at once, searching for the words that would help him most. “I must go too. George, you must let me. I’d only spoil your Picnic.” “You’ll miss a lot of nice sandwiches,” he said bitterly. “I made them myself, white meat.” With divine perception she saw the nature of his wound, the misery of his shame and self-abasement. It was not love of her he needed now, but love of himself, to keep life in him. “We wouldn’t have any chance to be _us_, we couldn’t talk, we must say it now.” He remembered that once they had promised themselves they would never say it. “It’s better so, I suppose. Then there won’t be even one sorrow that we haven’t shared.” “Sorrow?” she said. “Let’s call it joy. Dear, I shall always worship you as the bravest and most generous I have ever known. To do without things one can’t have, what credit is that? But to do without what one might have had.... George, let me try to get a little rest. I feel so ill.” He tucked her in and patted her shoulder. “Good-night, dear,” he said. “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right in the morning. God bless you.... Don’t forget any of the things I haven’t told you.” She knew that this was as near being one of his Moments as he could be expected to manage. He had turned the corner, at least three of the Georges would live. And the Fourth--well, she had that one where nothing mortal now could blot or stain him. For ever. * * * * * “In the morning” ... it was morning already. As he lay down on the couch he could feel, rather than see, the first dim fumes of day. The brief hush and interim was over, the pink moon had gone. The last of the crickets flung the password to the birds, treetops began to warble. A new link in the endless chain picked up the tension of life. Somewhere over the hillside a cock was crowing his brisk undoubting cheer.