There was to be a gulf henceforth between William and Faraday, and the twain who had once lived so near together were to see but little of each other; yet it was Faraday who gave him the first word of comfort as he walked by the side of his former disciple on the road to William’s flat. "If," he said suddenly and awkwardly—they were nearing their destination and it was the first time he had opened his lips since he led William out of the hall—"if it’s this recruiting business, this refusal, that’s adding to your trouble, I don’t think you need be too much discouraged. Honestly—you see it isn’t necessarily final. I know for a fact they’re refusing men now, because they can’t equip them as fast as they come in. They haven’t the uniforms, the accommodation, or the arms, and that’s why they sent up the standard for recruits with a rush. But if the thing’s as big as they say—the common talk is that Kitchener has prophesied three years of it, and it’s very likely true—they’ll be wanting every man who’ll come in before they’ve done with it. Not only the big chaps—every one. It will merely be a question of a few months—at the outside only a few months. So I shouldn’t take this refusal to heart." His message of comfort cost Faraday something to deliver; it was the sheer wretchedness of the broken little man beside him that moved him to deny his principles, by implication if not in so many words. The only audible reply that he received was a sniff, but even in the darkness he knew that his inconsistency had not been wasted, and that William had gained from it some measure of help and consolation. He said no more, and they parted with constraint on the pavement outside the flat—to tread through the future ahead of them their separate and several ways. Faraday did not go back to his meeting; he left it to break up or pursue as it would, while he walked the streets restlessly alone.