"I know it,—that is the tragedy of the whole thing. Those delights will be John's—and I hate to think that Amaryllis will be alone for all these months—and yet I believe I would prefer that to her being with John. I am jealous when I remember that he has rights denied to me—so what must he feel, poor devil, when he remembers about me?"
"It is quite a peculiar situation. I wonder what the years will develop it into."
"If the child is a girl, the whole thing is in vain."
"It won't be a girl—you will see I am right. When will you and John get leave, do you suppose?"
"I don't know, but about Christmas, perhaps, if we are alive—"
"Do you want to see her again, then?"
"I long always to see her—but by Christmas—it would be nearly five months. I don't think I could keep my word and not make love to her—if I saw her—then."
"You will wish to hear about her—?"
"Always."
After this they were both silent while the cheese was being removed. Verisschenzko was thinking profoundly. Here was a study worthy of his highest intuitive faculties. What possible solution could the future hold? Only one—that of death for either of the men concerned. Well, death was busy with England's best—it was no unlikely possibility—and as he looked at Denzil he felt a stab of pain. Nothing more splendid and living and strong could be imagined than his six foot one of manhood, crowned with the health of his twenty-nine years.