"Yes, blown to atoms at Soissons."
"Niel! Niel, too!" she cried. "If only they had been able to stop it in time!"
"Stop it! Stop men from going into a war like this! I'm not an idealist myself,"—he couldn't, to save his life, keep bitterness out of his voice—"but I do know there have been men who went into this war to defend the weak and to right wrong. A good many of those men can't speak for themselves any longer—" For a moment even Gavan couldn't speak for them. He began again in a level voice, "In those casualty lists—nearly every friend I had."
"Not the greatest friend of all; not Julian."
"Except Julian," he said dully, "our lot is practically wiped out. And now the younger men, the boys, Niel and the rest. They go and they go." He turned on her with a vehemence that cloaked his emotion. "I'm not saying that all the men out there feel the same about the war, but they fight on, some of them because—other men have died and mustn't have died in vain. The dead are the best recruiters. It's the dead call the loudest, 'Come, join up!'"
The tears stood in her eyes, but she shook her head.
"The dead can't speak for themselves. I wish they could. Soldiers—people who've been in it—aren't half so hot for going on with the struggle as a civilian like you."
"I'm not a civilian. I'm gazetted to the Scottish Borderers. This is the last time I'll see you."
"Oh, Gavan!" She held up her shaking hands.
He longed to beg her forgiveness, to say he hadn't meant in the very least to tell her like that; but all he could do was to explain, "The last, I mean, till I get my first leave," he ended in his most casual voice.