"And White and Lancaster, and all who leave this term, and perhaps even—perhaps others will get commissions at once."
"Why, sir? They're not going to Sandhurst."
"No," sighed Radley, "but they give commissions to all old public-schoolboys, if there's a big war. White and Lancaster will be in the fight before many months."
"Lucky beggars!"
It was this fatuous remark which showed Radley that I had no idea of my own relation to the coming conflict. So he forbore to spring upon me the greatest surprise of all. He just said with a sadness and a strange emphasis:
"Well, good-bye, and the best of luck. Make the most of your holiday. There are great times in front of you."
All the while he said it, he held my hand in a demonstrative way, very unlike the normal Radley. Then he dropped it abruptly and turned away. And I went exuberantly out—so exuberantly that I left my hat upon his table, and was obliged to hasten back for it. When I entered the room again, he was staring out of the window over the empty cricket fields. Though he heard me come, he never once turned round, as I picked up my hat and went out through the door.
And because of that I dared to wonder whether his grey eyes, where the gentleness lay, were not inquiring of the deserted fields: "Have I allowed myself to grow too fond?" He seemed as if braced for suffering.
Farewell, Radley, farewell. After all, does it matter to a strong swimmer if the wave beats against him?